


Immortal

by GloriaByrd



Series: Immortal [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 65
Words: 60,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29030730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaByrd/pseuds/GloriaByrd
Summary: Born of 2 heroes of the 5th Blight, Briala Sabrae is sent into a spiral of adventures with modern legends of Thedas. She seeks to avenge those who have been wronged with her unique skills as a warrior, rogue, and mage. Alt. origins collide, heroes of all 3 games meet, journeys span nearly all of Thedas, a war threatens the elven and human races, and Solas sets his plan into motion.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas
Series: Immortal [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2129640
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

Part I

1

Rebirth

A girl awoke with an arrow protruding from her chest where her heart should be. She sat up and ripped out the arrow. The absence of pain only slightly bothered her. A survey of her surroundings did little to ease her curiosity. Dead elves surrounded her. Nearby tents blazed with fire. Halla carcasses littered the grove. The scent of burning flesh penetrated her senses to a point at which she gagged. She pushed herself to her feet and studied the scene. The fletching of the arrows was red, and the tips pulsed with a bizarre red glow. She grabbed the arrow previously shot into her chest and laid it in a satchel from a small supply cache. Swinging the satchel over her shoulders, she looked back at the deceased elves scattered about the clearing. She did not recognize them. She did not know where she was. She did not know _who_ she was.

She studied a necklace that hung around her neck. Ironbark, it was. In it were carved elven runes she somehow knew to read “Alyne.”

“Alyne,” she whispered to herself as she traced the elegant script. Her first words, it could be said. As that was her best guess as to who she was, she decided she was Alyne, whoever that might be.

Birds chirped in a harmonious symphony in the tree branches above her. She scowled at their dishonor. There was too much death below them for such lilting chirps. Alyne exhaled and squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could do the same with her mind. She took several steadying, deep breaths before venturing into the forest.


	2. Chapter 2

2

Suspicion

“Hey, there! State your business!”

Alyne whipped around. An armored man approached her on a Ferelden Forder. On his breastplate was forged a griffin. How had she not heard him approach? Maybe she had been lost in thought with her curiosities.

“Stay away from me,” she commanded before turning away and breaking into a run. His mount caught up easily and stamped in front of her.

“ _Never_ run from a Grey Warden,” he growled, leaning down. She took note of his elegantly curled mustache. “What is an elf doing in these parts, alone?”

“I’m an elf?” she mumbled. She reached a hand up to feel the ends of her ears. It made sense. There were elves in the clearing with her. She had to have been one of them.

“Are you all right?” He straightened himself in his saddle, looking a bit unnerved. It seemed he had noticed the copious amount of dried blood on the left side of her chest.

Ignoring his question, she asked, “Where are we?”

“We are in the Exalted Plains, the lands of nothingness. That and ghost forts. Shouldn’t you know that, elf?”

“Can you take me to your encampment?”

“I do not have a nearby encampment, and even if I did, I do not trust you. Elves are dangerous these days. No one knows who to trust. Any elf could be working for the Dread Wolf.”

“The Dread Wolf?”

“Have you not lived a day, knife-ears? The Dread Wolf, a former companion to the Inquisitor, is the subject of a worldwide search. The Inquisitor informed the Grey Wardens, and we are now patrolling the Exalted Plains in the scenario he makes an appearance.”

“If I do not even know this ‘Dread Wolf,’ how could I be working for him?”

“Humans lie. Qunari lie. Dwarves lie. I expect elves do the same, no?”

“Even if you don’t trust me, I could follow you and your horse. You will have to rest at some point, while I have been traveling for days without food, water, or sleep.”

The Grey Warden made his mount back away. “How is that possible?” he questioned with wide eyes. Once again, he eyed the blood stain on her shirt and now began to force his horse to back away faster. “What _are_ you?”

“I don’t know.” She stepped forward, not at all threatening.

The Grey Warden then dismounted and unsheathed his sword. “I have been tasked with stopping the blight and those infected with it. I will make this a quick death if you allow me to do so.”

“Try.” She held out her hands welcomingly. A hint of a smile touched the corner of her lip. Why, she could not say.

He faltered before walking toward her. He raised the sword above her head. He brought it down as if to slice her in two, but with remarkable speed, Alyne leaped out of the way in a roll and darted to the Grey Warden’s horse. She swung a leg over the saddle, mounting in seconds, and galloping away. The Warden dashed in the dust she left in her wake but eventually left his horse to the thief.


	3. Chapter 3

3

Assault

Hours later, Alyne arrived at a small camp. A banner with a sword running through a blazing eye waved in the dry wind that carried brown, decaying leaves. Soldiers wearing the same heraldry tended to the fire and filled requisitions. Alyne stopped at the tree line, unsure of whether it was worth risking her secrecy for answers. She didn’t have a chance to decide.

“A spy! Get her!”

Nearly everyone in the camp rushed to her at once. She tugged at the reins, but the horse’s reflexes were not as fast as hers. It whinnied against the jerk and reared. Too many trees stood behind her to escape at full speed. Though Alyne _might_ survive a hail of arrows in the back, her horse could not, and she needed that horse. She dismounted with phenomenal speed and rushed at the guards. Their defenses wavered as their awe rose. That was all she needed. She elbowed the closest guard in the nose, feeling the other woman’s bones break beneath her own elbow. The sentry released a cry of pain and ineffectually tried to stop the bleeding with her hands, causing her to drop her sword. Alyne grabbed the fallen sword and blocked a blow from another guard. The third took a swing at her with an identical sword to Alyne’s. This made her shield drop enough for Alyne to bury her own sword into the guard’s bowels. The sentinel instantly dropped, clutching her profusely bleeding abdomen. The second guard went for a jab. Alyne leaped out of the way and kicked at her knee from the side. It cracked, collapsing her immediately. The first guard was beginning to ignore her bleeding nose and swung in a wide, clumsy arc that Alyne effortlessly dodged. Alyne then slammed the hilt of her sword into the helmet of the guard. She went unconscious promptly. Alyne took a moment to catch her breath and did not notice that the camp’s potion master had sneaked up behind her. She heard the sound of shattering glass, then inhaled, catching the second most disgusting odor since the burning halla and elf bodies. Her eyes closed, and she slept for the first time since she pulled the arrow from her heart.


	4. Chapter 4

4

Transport

Alyne awoke to ropes binding her arms and legs to a cart. She could only see the edges of the wagon and a strange sort of greenish scar in the sky. She tugged at the ropes, but it was useless. The cart bounced lazily along whatever road they followed.

“Ah, you’re awake,” an old woman’s voice came from the front of the transport.

Another spoke from the front of the cart. “Don’t talk to the prisoner.”

“Don’t worry,” the first said to the second. “What is your name, child?”

“I’m not a child,” Alyne grated. She felt defenseless. She hated it.

“Ah,” the old woman said gently, “but you are not an adult either. You look to be about fourteen years of age, are you not?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“Did you also not know you are only half elf? Your ears are not sharp enough to be a full Dalish despite your clothing, though normally that is quite impossible, as offspring of humans and elves are human.”

“I did not know that either.” Alyne murmured. She was unsure of everything.

“We are traveling to––”

“Don’t tell her where we’re going!” a third voice commanded.

The old woman responded, “I believe she deserves to know where we are going. Think of how afraid she must be.”

“She’s an elf! She could be working for the Dread Wolf!” the third pointed out.

“Is that your best argument? You three attacked her without first questioning if she was going to attack us and because of her race,” the old woman pointed out. “This is prejudice.”

“She broke my knee!” a fourth voice complained.

“Then you should train harder if you were beaten by a fourteen year-old girl,” the senior retorted. “Well, young elf, we are on our way to Skyhold. I believe the Inquisitor would like to speak with you.”


	5. Chapter 5

5

Stationary

Varric Tethras, Viscount of Hightown, shot an arrow from his precious crossbow which buried itself in a Merchant Guild member’s chest. The man’s upraised, serrated daggers clattered to the ground. After rising from the throne, Varric walked to the dying man and removed a letter half-concealed in the man’s jacket.

_This “servant” has been intercepting my letters. Great. I knew the Merchant’s Guild would get to me eventually._

He tore open the letter addressed to himself and read it.

_Varric,_

_You have not been answering my letters. Maybe you are ignoring them along with those from the Merchant’s Guild. Or maybe this is all just a stunt of yours. Please tell me you are all right. I need you to come to Skyhold for a time. The work has significantly weighed down on me, and I need someone to help me transition the Inquisition into another’s hands. I will be taking a bit of a break, and I know of no one but you to help me with this; everyone else is also too busy. This will be the last letter I send you before I dispatch a messenger to check on you personally._

_L.L._

“Why does she have to worry about me so much?” he muttered. He folded up the letter and stuffed it in a pocket of his coat. Thrusting open the doors, he left the Viscount’s Keep.

“Where are you going?” an advisor demanded behind him before he walked out the final doors.

“Skyhold,” he answered while continuing his egress.

“Skyhold? But you’re Viscount! You can’t leave!”

“You’re in charge until I get back.” Varric waved his hand dismissively.

“But––”

Varric slammed the doors behind himself before the advisor could continue.


	6. Chapter 6

6

Prejudice

Alyne remained silent for the remainder of the journey. They arrived at Skyhold nearly a day later. The guards removed Alyne from the cart at the entry gate and fought against their holds on her all the way to the dungeon. The guard she had bitten along the way threw her into the cell especially hard. “Have a nice visit, _knife-ears_ ,” the man snorted.

Alyne was supplied with enough food and water for a normal person to eat, but she wasn’t normal. She didn’t feel hungry or thirsty, so she left the food and water where it was delivered. The guard who retrieved the uneaten food and water scoffed every time she saw it untouched and began to wonder if Alyne was purposefully starving herself.

After a few days the daily food and water stopped coming to her. A few days after that the guard unlocked her cell and informed her the Inquisitor wished to see her.

Alyne’s hair––which was so blond it was nearly white––fell in front of her face as she was practically dragged to the great hall. There was no point in fighting or making it easier on the guard by walking.

The great hall was immense. Dalish decorations were scattered throughout the room, and banners with the same symbol from the camp in the Exalted Plains hung from the walls. A woman sat on a dragon maw throne at the far end of the hall. The woman’s hair was blond and her skin fair, despite many adventures outdoors. Long, pointed ears protruded from her hair pulled back into a bun.

Many people were gathered before the throne and watched Alyne being dragged in. The gaze of the woman on the throne was so intense, Alyne stood up and walked the rest of the way, with the guard’s hands continuing to guide her and prevent her from escape. An advisor stood beside the throne with a metal tablet and paper in hand with a candle to illuminate the charges. The woman on the throne studied Alyne with great curiosity.

“Inquisitor, this is, well, we do not know her name, but we do know her crimes,” the advisor spoke with a foreign accent. “She attacked a camp in the Exalted Plains, leaving the three guards posted there injured.” She paused, then took a deep breath. “She is believed to be working with Solas.”

“Is there any proof of her collusion?” the Inquisitor asked, leaning forward.

“Well, no,” the advisor replied, “but the guards thought so.”

The Inquisitor inquired, “Did she make any attempt to attack the guards before they attacked her?”

“No, but––”

“So, she was attacked simply for being an elf?”

“Well, yes––”

“Then she has been attacked, dragged from her homeland, imprisoned, and put on trial simply for being an elf?” The Inquisitor stood up and spoke to the crowd. Her cheeks rapidly flushed red with fury. “This is _not_ what the Inquisition is about. Yes, I ordered people to search for Solas, but that does not mean we should try to kill every elf out there! We want equality for all races!” The Inquisitor sat back down and spoke to Alyne. “I’m sorry for what has happened to you. Please forgive the Inquisition and allow us to return you to your fellow Dalish.”

“They are all dead,” Alyne uttered, but the sound carried through the chamber. A collective gasp rose from the crowd.

“What?” The Inquisitor asked apprehensively. “What did you say?” She leaned forward as if to hear Alyne deliver better news, to contradict the awful words that had just been spoken.

“The first thing I remember,” Alyne continued quietly, “is death. An arrow was in my heart. The feathers were red, and the tip glowed red––”

“Red?” The Inquisitor stood up, ran to Alyne, and grabbed her shoulders. “You said the tip glowed red?” The Inquisitor’s blue irises were flecked with pulsating, glowing red veins, horrendously reminding Alyne of the arrow.

“Yes,” Alyne answered nervously. She made the attempt to lean as far away from the fellow elf as possible.

“Did it look like lyrium?”

“I don’t know what lyrium looks like.”

“Your Worship, if I may?” A guard from the camp spoke from a corner of the room, breaking the silence that had seized the crowd. She stepped forward, a horribly bruised nose now clearly visible in the torchlight.

“Go on,” the Inquisitor spoke.

“This elf was carrying a satchel. It is locked up now, but in it was what I now believe she is speaking of. She is telling the truth about the arrow at least.”

“Thank you.” The Inquisitor turned back to Alyne. “You said you awoke with the arrow in your heart. How are you alive?”

“I don’t know.” Alyne let her head hang.

“Don’t be ashamed that you survived.”

“Yes, ser,” Alyne answered.

“Please continue,” the Inquisitor told her.

“Dead Dalish and halla surrounded me. I don’t remember anything.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“Even your name?”

“Even my name.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You already said that.”

“I have, haven’t I? Varric?” The Inquisitor turned to a dwarf by the fireplace. The eyes of everyone in the room shifted to him.

“Huh?” It took a moment for him to realize the Inquisitor was asking him to do something. “Yes?”

The Inquisitor smiled. “Can you please take this girl to meet our friends?”

He shrugged acceptingly without hesitation. “Sure thing, Inquisitor.”

Alyne nervously glanced between the two.

“You’ll be all right,” the Inquisitor told her comfortingly. Alyne slowly walked toward Varric and tried to keep herself from looking back to the Inquisitor’s red-flecked eyes.

“C’mon. I’ll introduce you to some folks here. I promise you it’ll be better than a jail cell.”


	7. Chapter 7

7

Familiarity

They walked down the stairs and went into the tavern where a qunari was singing a bar song with some other patrons. When he was finished, he shouted, “To the Inquisition and the hot women who run it!”

“Here, here!” The patrons shouted. The bartender shook his head in exasperation but continued to clean tankards. Alyne stopped in the doorframe to watch an elf in the back corner of the bar. Her facial tattoos showed that she was Dalish. Maybe she would know something about Alyne’s past. Alyne began walking toward her until the qunari shouted at her.

“Hey! It’s that new Dalish elf! Come here!”

Believing she could handle herself, Varric had already ordered a drink and settled himself at a corner table. Alyne begrudgingly walked toward the qunari. “I’m Iron Bull. Nice to meet you.” He held out his hand as if to let her shake it but went back to his beverage before she got the chance. “So, a rumor in the bar is that you died, and somehow you’re alive. Eh. I’ve seen weirder things while workin’ for the boss.”

“You have?” she asked with curiosity lighting up her eyes.

“Yeah. I’ve seen the boss tame a dragon and close a giant, green glowing hole in the sky leading to the Fade.” He took a sip of his overpowering beverage, and his eyes widened. “Whew! I will never, never stop lovin’ that stuff!” He slammed his tankard down. “Another round!” The bartender poured him another tankard.

“Do you know who that elf is over there?”

“Dalish?”

“Well, it looks like she’s Dalish––”

He released a thunderous laugh. “No, no. That’s her nickname. She’s part of the Chargers, my group. She _is_ Dalish, though.” He paused. “Wait, do you know her?”

Alyne once again looked at Dalish’s _vallaslin_ tattoos that were so like her own. “I don’t know, but I hope she knows me.” Alyne stood and walked to Dalish with Iron Bull watching her leave. Dalish looked up from a book and suddenly closed it. The cover read Hard in Hightown. Her eyes widened in astonishment. “What are you doing here, _da’len_? Why aren’t you with the clan? Surely your mother would not let you join the Inquisition.”

Alyne’s throat caught. She uttered, “The clan . . . they are all dead.” She remembered the smell of the burning bodies. How horrible it was. The empty gazes on their faces. Tears came to Alyne’s eyes.

“What?” Dalish stood. “How?”

“I don’t know.” She looked at her feet while flashes of Dalish’s pained face shot through her mind. “But I should have died with them.”

“ _Ir abelas_ , but you should not have died. Now you and I are all that remains of our clan. We must live for them. Tell me, how did they die?”

“I don’t know, but I can’t live for them when I don’t know who they are. Or who I am.”

“What do you mean, da’len?”

“I had an arrow in my heart. I lived, somehow, but I awoke with no recollection of my life.”

“You don’t even remember your name?”

“No.”

“Then I will tell you. You are Briala. Your mother was Alyne Sabrae, the Hero of Ferelden.” A proud yet forlorn smile came to Dalish’s face.

“ _My mother_ was the Hero of Ferelden?”

“I swear it. Your mother was a good woman. Thedas thought they knew her. But they never _understood_ her. After she saved the world by stopping the fifth Blight, Alyne––your mother––found a Dalish camp. It was not the one she grew up in, but it was home enough. She gave birth to an illegitimate half-elf she named ‘Briala.’ Your mother was in love with King Alistair. Well, that was before he became king. Turns out, they all thought they were going to die in the final battle against the archdemon anyway, so they just went to town.” She chuckled, and the change in mood startled Alyne. “I’m surprised the Inquisitor didn’t do the same with Solas before she lost her hand and her powers.”

“Wait. The Inquisitor and Solas?”

Dalish chuckled. “Believe it or not. Solavellan, as some have coined it. He removed her vallaslin and called her ‘ma vhenan,’ meaning ‘my heart.’ Those two probably would have eloped if Solas hadn’t turned out to be Fen’Harel and wanted to destroy the world. Rumor has it he almost gave up his plans a thousand years in the making for her.”

“It’s frightening how quickly people change,” Alyne remarked.

“Yes. It is,” Dalish responded quietly.

Alyne suddenly gasped. “And you didn’t tell Iron Bull that you knew the Hero of Ferelden?” she asked loudly out of surprise.

“Shh!” She glanced over her shoulder at Iron Bull who downed another tankard’s contents. “He will terrorize me with questions till the day I die if he knows,” she whispered. “So, aren’t you going to ask me more questions?” She narrowed her eyes in question.

“No.” Alyne looked down. “Briala died. My mother’s dead. I probably never knew my father. Everyone I once knew is dead, except, apparently, you. I suppose it’s good I don’t remember anything.”

“Listen to me.” Dalish gently pulled Alyne’s chin up. “Your life was not so bad. Though the Keeper disliked you and your mother, others in the clan enjoyed your company.” Dalish smirked. “I heard you bested three Inquisition guards. You must still remember your training, or, at least, your muscles do.”

“Training?”

“Did you think the Hero of Ferelden would fail to train her only child fighting techniques? Come on, da’len!” She slapped Alyne’s back, then began to tell stories of her mother’s adventures.

. . .

Varric sat next to Iron Bull and watched the elves’ conversation.

“They act like sisters,” Varric commented.

“I have never seen Dalish talk this much,” Iron Bull said. “You know, one time I almost got Dalish to––”

Varric’s eyes shot open. “Shut up, Iron Bull. I’m trying to listen.”

“Ah! You dwarf! I’ll––”

Varric held his hand up as if commanding him in stealth on the eve of battle. Iron Bull instantly quieted to eavesdrop on the conversation in the loud bar.

“What are they saying?” Iron Bull whispered.

“The girl’s mother is––Wait, I couldn’t have heard that right. And her father is––? Crap.”

“What?”

“Her mother is the Hero of Ferelden and her father is probably King Alistair. Sh––”

“Whoa! And Dalish knew these people? Why didn’t she tell me? I coulda been famous!” Iron Bull slammed his fist on the table and took another swig.

“This is serious! The queen is past her thirty years––unable to have children. That means that kid is in line for the throne.”

“Take a drink, dwarf. They are not your problems.”

“I wish,” he scoffed, “but they became my problems the moment the Inquisitor told me to take care of her.”

“But why would she pick you?” Iron Bull mused.

“Hey, I can be good with children!”

“No. No, you can’t. You’ll be good with children the day nugs fly.”

“And why’s that?”

“You are the kind of person who helps save the world, not one who raises kids. You’d end up giving them weapons training instead of playtime.”

“They should be taught at a young age!”

“I think the only reason the boss picked you is because of this: you are the boss’s friend, and she trusts you to act like her but be, uh, more fun.”

“Are you sure that’s it?”

“You haven’t even touched your drink to your lips! Drink to the revelations of tonight, my friend!”

Varric gave him a slight smile and lifted the drink to his lips. He turned his gaze to Alyne, then lowered the tankard. “You know, I shouldn’t tonight. Have fun.” Varric left the bar and waited outside until Alyne was done speaking with Dalish. It was another hour of waiting, but compared to what the kid had gone through, it was nothing.

Alyne stepped out of the bar and seemed to notice Varric leaning against the wall without even seeing him. “Where to next?” she asked gruffly as she walked past him. He jogged to follow her as she stomped away.

“It’s late. You should get some rest.”

“I don’t sleep.”

“Want do you mean you don’t sleep?”

“I haven’t slept since I died.”

“How long ago was that?”

“About a week ago.”

Varric was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, people keep saying that when it wasn’t their fault.”

“Is that a bad thing, people saying they’re sorry?”

“It is when it makes them think it changes things. It doesn’t. Never does.”

“I’m going to my quarters. If you don’t want to sleep, you can head to the gardens. Or, I don’t know, explore the place.”

Alyne stopped but did not turn around. “Thanks, Varric. For caring.”

“No problem, kid.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”


	8. Chapter 8

8

Singing

“What was in that arrow, Lana?” Varric asked her. Lanahris Lavellan set her remaining hand above her head. She had lost the other to the Anchor, the glowing green mark that helped her close Fade rifts but was slowing killing her before her hand was removed.

“It was red lyrium, Varric.”

“No. No. Are you sure? No doubts?”

“I saw the arrow with my own eyes. It was red lyrium. And it was the singing kind.”

“Crap. Corypheus is dead. Who else would want it?”

“Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean his followers disappeared from existence. They’re still out there. They want revenge.” She mused, “But why would they go after the Dalish?”

Varric didn’t answer for a moment. What if Alyne didn’t want the Inquisitor to know who she was related to? Well, unfortunately this wasn’t a matter that could be delayed for one person’s wishes. This may be a breach of trust, but it was better than the Inquisitor not knowing. “I heard a rumor about who Alyne’s parents are.”

“Who are they?” The Inquisitor immediately turned around, and her hand grabbed Varric’s shoulders. A crazed look resided in her eyes, reminding him of his red lyrium-infected brother. He pushed the her away, his own eyes widening.

“You’re working too hard. How much time have you spent with that arrow?”

She turned away and held a hand to her head. “Too much. It sings to me all the time now. I’m trying to fight it, but it’s not getting any easier. It’s pure red lyrium, Varric. Some of the purest I’ve ever seen. This . . . infection of lyrium across Thedas, it’s getting worse. Soon it’ll affect mages everywhere.”

“I thought you were going to take a break. Isn’t that why you wanted me to come to Skyhold?”

“That was simply an excuse to get you here,” she responded quickly. Too quickly. “The arrow––”

“ _Where_ is the arrow?”

“In my desk. Just take it. D-destroy it. Just get it away from me before I go mad.” Varric stepped lightly toward her desk, eying her all the while. “Top middle drawer.” He opened it to find a swaddle of old cloth encasing the glowing arrow. The red tip seemed to pulse with a strange, almost inviting light. Only his hatred of red lyrium gave him the strength to wrap it back up. The Inquisitor moved to reach for it but stopped herself. “It is for the best,” she whispered more to herself than him.

“Go rest. You’ve been through too much too fast.”

“What?” She sighed heartily and threw her one and a half arms in the air. “I only lost my clan, my arm, my faith in the elven gods. Now I’m leading a hunt to find the love of my life who is trying to destroy the world. Not only did Solas deceive me, but he made me fall in love with the most evil god in the elven pantheon, Fen’Harel, the trickster. I worry _every moment_ of _every day_ that we will find him, but at the same time I can’t wait for news of his location. I am afraid. What if we do find him? What then? I believe I am the only one in the Inquisition who wants to find him and bring him in alive. I wish to redeem him. What if I am forced to choose between the love of my life who abandoned and lied to me and a world that hates my kind? Varric . . .” Her breath shook. She leaned against her bed with one arm. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

“You can,” he said, taking quick steps toward her after setting the arrow, still encased, on the desk. Her back shook with sobs she desperately tried to suppress. After leading an army for years that could impact the fate of the world and broken by her many personal losses, she had adopted the habit of concealing her true emotions to look strong for her followers. And even if she wanted to go home to her clan, there was no future in her mind in which she could live a peaceful life among those who had not seen the horrors of the world she had.

Varric spoke for her. “Hawke went through the same thing. She lost her brother and her home in the same day. Her father died too. She held her dying mother who had been the victim of a sort of serial killer in her arms. Some of her friends betrayed her. Then they left her, including me. I’m sure the Hero of Ferelden went through it too. The thing about being a hero is, in order to become stronger, you have to break first.”

Lanahris sniffled and allowed herself a slight smile. “Thank you, Varric.”

“We’ll see. After I destroy this arrow, promise me you’ll take it easy. The Inquisition needs to learn to stand by itself. You can’t be here forever.”

“I’ll rest easy when we stop the people responsible for killing the Dalish clan.”

“‘ _We_ ’? You only have one arm! You can’t swing a stave like you used to.” He paused. “This is personal, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She sighed and moved to sit down. “That girl, so young, forced into something she is not yet ready for. She reminds me of myself, only my clan wasn’t killed before my eyes, and my memories were not erased. I was thrust into saving the world only because I was in the wrong place at the right time when the Temple of Sacred Ashes was destroyed. She doesn’t deserve to be shoved into all this chaos. If I had gone after Corypheus’s followers instead of celebrating after I killed him, she might be––”

“You can’t save everyone in the world. I hate red lyrium, but I don’t spend every breath searching for it because I’d die without getting enough done. Rest is essential. I can see you need it.”

“But I’m needed here!”

“You can’t do much if you go mad from a lyrium addition. Go rest. There are new people dedicated to the Inquisition. And old people. Unfortunately, I guess I fall under the latter category.”

“If you’re still helping, why can’t I?”

“People won’t look up to you if you’re dead and under their feet.” A moment of silence followed. Varric turned around and looked out over the balcony at the snowy mountain peaks surrounding Skyhold. He watched the golden light of the sunset slide down the crests. “Do you ever regret going to the Temple of Sacred Ashes in the first place? If you hadn’t, you’d still have your arm, your freedom, heck, probably your virginity.”

“Ugh! I still have it!”

“That’s pathetic.”

“Varric!” She turned around in her chair to watch him. She smiled in spite of herself. “Anyway, I don’t regret going to the temple. Most of the time. What does my freedom mean if the world had ended? And if I had never gone there, I never would have met Sol––.” She stopped and bit her lip. “Maybe it would have been better. If I hadn’t gone.” Her gaze returned to the arrow wrapped in cloth on the table.

He turned around. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you eying the arrow.” He lowered his eyebrows.

“Sorry, the lyrium is still singing.” She pressed the palm of her hand to her forehead. “Just tell me, who are Alyne’s parents, and what are their names?”

“Alyne Sabrae and Alistair Theirin.”

She shook her head believing it was a joke. “Two Grey Wardens being able to procreate a child is unheard of. There is a reason Queen Anora and King Alistair have not had a child yet.”

“The Hero of Ferelden and the King of Ferelden are Alyne’s parents, apparently. That explains the ears. Sort of.”

The Inquisitor questioned, “Is the Hero of Ferelden dead?”

“If she was at the Dalish camp––probably.”

“Is Alyne a possible heir?” She stood and began pacing.

Varric shrugged. “I don’t know. In today’s world I doubt a half-elf would be popular as a queen. Maybe the daughter of the Hero of Ferelden and King Alistair _would_ be the most popular heir. _Who knows?_ And how does she have elven ears if her father is a human? Wouldn’t a child from parents like that look like a human? Half-elves just don’t exist.”

“I don’t know. Maybe whatever Solas is doing to restore the old elven ways is changing things.”

“But she was, er, _created_ before Solas tried to use the first orb.”

“I don’t know. This doesn’t make any sense. None of it does. The red lyrium. Solas being an Old God in disguise this entire time. Alyne being a half-elf.” She asked, “Do you think we should inform the public?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“I really hate politics,” she sighed.

“I’m glad I’m not you.”

“Yeah,” she chuckled, “me too.”


	9. Chapter 9

9

Support

“Stop throwing rocks. It’s time to train.” Varric stood beside Alyne who sat by a small pond in the garden. Another pebble _plopped_ into the water, sending ripples through the surface.

“I beat three Inquisition soldiers without bringing my own weapon into the fight and _you_ want to train _me_?” She threw another pebble.

“As I understand it, you were defeated by a frail old woman who sneaked up behind you. If she had been an enemy with a knife, you’d be dead.”

“No. I lived through a red lyrium arrow sticking out of my heart. A knife to the back probably wouldn’t kill me.”

“True,” he shrugged, “but it’s good to practice.”

“Why?” Alyne now fingered the necklace around her throat.

“Because, well . . . you have nothing better to do, and I’m in charge of you.”

“Fine.” She continued to sit and fiddle with her necklace.

Varric didn’t need to kneel to see the whiteish ironbark necklace. “What do the runes say?”

She was quiet for a moment. “My mother’s name. Dalish told me. It’s a sort of tag that would have helped people know who my mother was if she died in battle and was unrecognizable. You see, she would fight against dragons, and they aren’t famed for being gentle with their victims.”

“Is that where you got the name ‘Alyne’?”

“Yes. What would you have done? Called yourself ‘Dead Halla’ or ‘Fire’? I knew nothing of my past. I was a dead girl walking. I suppose I still am.”

“I’m sorry.” He paused. “Ugh. I keep forgetting you don’t like that.”

“It’s all right. So, you still want to train?”

“Sure.”

“What do you wish to train with?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Well,” she shrugged, “Dalish told me my mother trained me with daggers and swords and had a mage in the clan teach me magic.”

Varric’s eyes widened. “You mean you were trained to be a warrior, rogue, and a mage? Is that even possible?”

“Well, apparently being in a secluded forest and training with a mother who happens to be the Hero of Ferelden for about eleven years helped me accomplish her dreams. But Dalish said I can only do a couple of spells.” She threw another rock in. “You heard, didn’t you? That my mother was the Hero of Ferelden?”

“You were talking too loud in the bar.”

The two of them watched the ripples extending across the surface of the pond.

“It hurts more every day,” Alyne commented, setting her left hand over her chest.

Varric turned to her with a concerned gaze. “What does?”

“My wound. I think a piece of the red lyrium arrow tip broke off in my heart, and it’s growing. The red lyrium spreads more every day.”

“Will it kill you?” Varric’s voice grew nervous.

“Might as well. I feel more . . . separated every day.”

“You’re depressing, kid. You know that?”

“I won’t be depressing when I’ve turned into a giant lyrium crystal.”

“Hey, you are at Skyhold, and the Inquisition has your back. We have resources. I’m sure someone here can help you.”

“Who’s going to want to help a half-elf?”

“Kid, I’m a surface dwarf, and the Inquisitor, probably the busiest woman in Thedas, helped me with my problems.”

“But you’re her friend.”

“Well, yes, but––”

“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “The Inquisition has enough to do.”

“Well,” Varric paused while thinking it over, “I could look into it. I don’t go on missions and expeditions like I used to, so I have plenty of time.” He thought to himself, _Even though I should be in Hightown right now, ruling the city._

She whispered, “Thank you.”

“No problem, kid,” he replied softly.


	10. Chapter 10

10

Assistance

“What do you mean, ‘We can’t investigate it’?”

“We don’t have the resources. Everyone is devoted to finding and stopping Solas. The end of the world is more important than saving one girl.” Josephine, the chief advisor of the Inquisition, continued to sign documents confirming weapon shipments to Orlais to aid in the hunt for Solas.

“That ‘one girl’ is in her current situation because of _us_.” Varric set his hands down on her desk and leaned forward. “This situation might have killed the Hero of Ferelden. The Inquisitor almost drove herself to insanity trying to find a way to help the kid.”

She looked up slightly. “Solas is also a problem created by the Inquisition. If you want to help the girl, you’ll have to find a way to do it yourself. Maybe you can ask Dagna to research it if she’s not too busy.”

“You can’t find _some_ way to help? Surely we have _some_ resources––”

Josephine sighed, set down her quill, and steepled the tips of her fingers. “Varric, you must understand that I am stretched _very_ thin with the Inquisitor barely functioning. I don’t have time. I apologize.” Her foreign accent made her tongue click but her words glide.

“Yeah,” Varric said, standing up. “I’m beginning to realize people use those words as an excuse.” He stormed out and met Alyne standing in the great hall.

“So, what did she say?”

This was the most hope Varric had seen in her. Her large eyes shone in the torchlight. Varric found breaking the truth to her to be the hardest task he’d ever done until then. “We’re-we’re on our own.” Her eyes closed.

“I need some time.” She left the great hall with Varric regretting the news.


	11. Chapter 11

11

Company

Alyne cut into the dummy with such force the top half flew off. She moved to tuck her stray bangs behind her ear but forgot she still had the sword in her hand. She studied the steel for a moment before bringing it to her hand. She brought it across her palm. Blood followed the blade and dripped from its tip. The blood glowed with a red light, and a lightning-like crackle sounded from it after every heartbeat. A pool of glowing blood soon gathered in her palm. Minutes later the blood hardened into red lyrium crystals. She sighed and gripped the sword again. The crystals jutting out from her hand were large enough to be irksome, but she was still able to swing her sword. She moved to the next dummy and jabbed it where the stomach would be before slicing off its head. An arrow pierced the forehead of it before it finished its fall, and Alyne turned around to see Varric wielding Bianca the crossbow.

“Couldn’t stay away, could you?” she asked him.

“I wanted to ask Dagna for help with your situation, but she was also too busy. I’m sor––Ugh. I’m working on it.” Alyne began attacking another dummy. “Are you all right?”

She slowly brought down her sword and looked down. “No. Nothing is. My clan and my mother are dead. I don’t remember any of them. I’m becoming a glowing rock.” She transferred the sword to her other hand and showed Varric the new growth of red lyrium. “I can’t do this anymore!” She exclaimed. She broke down, tears quickly running down her cheeks. “I lost _everything_! And I-I––” She collapsed and sobbed.

Varric knelt beside her and set a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, kid. Just let it out.”

For the first time, she let herself experience the pain of her loss.


	12. Chapter 12

12

Draconic

“You ready to beat that dragonling like you beat the dummies?”

“Of course. Why are you even asking?” Alyne blew the hair out of her face and rolled her eyes. Her fingers moved to a dagger on her belt where ice runes were engraved. The dragonling didn’t stand a chance.

Varric already held his crossbow in his arms and was prepared in case something went wrong. A two-handed sword hung on Alyne’s back while two daggers resided in their respective hilts on her belt. She wore traditional Dalish armor which helped her blend into the greenery of the bush surrounding the two. Varric watched the dragonling through an opening in the foliage. It was eating from a ram carcass, a fresh kill. Entrails hung from its long, sharp teeth as it pulled the animal apart. The dragonling had been eating from Skyhold’s usual food supplies and was one of the minor tasks Alyne was permitted to assist with. Varric thought of the opportunity as a pleasant distraction from her worries.

“Can I go now?” she asked as she studied the creature for weak points.

“Have at it.”

“And you won’t interfere?” She glared at the crossbow.

“Bianca won’t interfere unless she has to.” He smirked.

She nodded, then quietly made her way to the dragonling using as much forest cover as possible. For a moment she paused and held a hand to the left side of her chest. A grimace cut across her face before she advanced once more. She ran out of such cover nearly fifteen feet away from the creature. From there she threw a dagger into the hindquarters of the dragonling. Ice spread from its scales, resulting in a roar from the monster, and she advanced. Her weapon change to a sword was so fast it was difficult for Varric to see. She then shattered the ice with a mighty blow from her sword, ripping out the dagger. The sword gleamed in the noon sun during the swing, and the blow temporarily blinded the dragonling. Sheathing her sword with fantastic speed, Alyne switched to her remaining dagger, cutting at the dragonling’s face while it stumbled with spotty vision. It roared with rage as a dagger sliced across its nostrils. It brought up one of its front claws to inspect the injury, and while it was doing so, Alyne again switched to her sword and brought it down on the dragonling’s raised arm. The limb dropped to the ground in a spray of blood. Alyne dodged a swing from its tail as it turned ninety degrees to its right. She leapt on its back and sat on it like a horse while it tried to bite her with its long snout. She raised the sword above her head and was about to bring it down when she shuddered. The sword slipped from her hands and slid off the hide of the dragonling, landing in the dirt and grass. She fell forward and clutched at her heart. The dragonling tried to rear up on its back legs, but due to the loss of one of its front legs, was unbalanced and twisted in midair. It landed on its side––and on Alyne’s leg. She passed out from the pain of the immense creature crushing her bones.

Varric brought up his crossbow and shot at the creature’s head before it bit Alyne. The first arrow hit one of its bared teeth, knocking it out and sounding a vicious roar. The beast turned its attention to its new attacker. It pushed itself up, and Alyne slid off. With another roar it charged toward the bushes in which Varric was hiding. He reloaded his crossbow and shot another arrow into the dragonling’s eye. It stopped its charge and lifted its remaining front claw before dropping to the ground––dead. Varric rushed to Alyne. Her leg was still more or less intact; the creature had only broken her bones, not shattered them it seemed.

“C’mon, kid. Wake up.” Varric gently tapped the side of her face. She groaned painfully. He noted her breathing was shallow. He strenuously lifted her and began to walk, step by step, back to Skyhold. If he could at least get her to a nearby camp or hunting party, she could have a chance. But if he had to carry her all the way to Skyhold, he would.

Her breathing continued to become more labored. At times she would groan in pain, and her arms would reach for her chest.

“Almost there, kid,” Varric grunted. In truth, Skyhold was still a great walking distance away and would likely take at least an hour, especially with snow on the ground nearer to the keep. She might not have that long without a healer. He doubled his pace, reminding himself that whatever burning he felt in his heart or legs, Alyne’s was much worse. His heart raced even faster when he smelled smoke. He felt his muscles move hastier. “Just a little further,” he told himself. Over the top of a hill was a small Inquisition hunting outpost with only one hunter present. He was sharpening a spear and quickly held it up when Varric approached with Alyne in his arms. “Get her to Skyhold,” he panted. The hunter hesitated before readying his horse.

“Put her on the saddle. I’ll get her there,” the young man said. Varric hoisted Alyne onto the saddle and was sure to be careful with her leg. The man jumped on the saddle behind her and reached to grab the reins. “Hyah!” The horse ran away leaving Varric in a cloud of dust. But he didn’t blink as he watched the hunter keep her in the saddle and bring her toward her only hope. Varric continued his journey back to Skyhold hoping each second of his own breath wouldn’t be the last of Alyne’s.


	13. Chapter 13

13

Borderline

“Where is she? Alyne? Half-elf?”

The healer replied, “Second tent from the left.”

“Thank you.” Varric lifted the tent flap and stepped inside. The healer’s assistant dabbed cold water on Alyne’s forehead with a cloth. She excused herself as Varric walked in. He stared at Alyne’s nearly still form for a moment, overcome with shock. She had been so lively only hours ago . . . Now . . .

“Alyne?” He spoke quietly as he walked to the side of her bed.

Her eyes opened a crack, and her head turned to the side. “Varric?” Her voice cracked.

“Yes, I’m here.” He gently took her hand. His eyes watered. If it had been any other time, he would have hated it.

“It hurts _so_ much. A part of me will always be in the lyrium. The pain will never end. I want to die.” Tears began to pool in her eyes.

“Don’t ask me to do this.”

“ _Please_.”

Varric let go of her hand and turned away. He put his hands over his head.

 _This is wrong,_ he thought. But what was happening to her was wrong.

“You can’t ask me to do this, kid.”

“You don’t know what it feels like,” she said slowly. “The red lyrium, this evil thing, is becoming part of me. My mother fought the Blight, and now I have it inside of me. I shouldn’t be alive anyway. Death is mercy.”

“I can’t do this.” Varric turned around. He noticed the red lyrium crystals on her hand that were large enough it was surprising she had been able to wield a sword earlier. “I’ll be right back.” Varric turned away and squeezed his eyes shut while Alyne pleaded. Varric left the tent and headed toward the great hall. He opened the doors to Josephine’s study. She was signing papers again and only looked up to see who had entered the room. “I need you to get King Alistair Theirin here immediately.”

“Excuse me?” she asked, eyes still on the writing. He brought his hand down on the papers. She scowled and dropped her quill. “Why do you need King Alistair to come here _right now_? He has the entire kingdom of Ferelden to run.”

“Alyne is his daughter,” he replied simply.

“ _What?_ And you never told me this? She could be an heir! Who is her mother, then?”

“The Hero of Ferelden. Listen, you need to get him here. Fast. Please. If you do this for me, I’ll owe you a favor.”

“You’ve known Alyne is the daughter of the Hero of Ferelden and King Alistair, and you _never_ told me?”

“Just do it! The red lyrium is taking her over. She doesn’t have much time left.”

“Varric, have you been . . . crying?” She leaned forward to study his eyes, and he quickly backed away.

“Will you do it or not?”

She sighed. “I’ll send an urgent notice telling him his daughter, whom he probably didn’t know existed, is infected with red lyrium. Happy?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Varric left the room and headed toward Alyne’s tent as Josephine began writing the letter. Once again, he lifted the tent flap to find Alyne inside, hardly breathing. It would take days for King Alistair to arrive if he did at all. Varric hoped Alyne would remain conscious long enough to meet her father.


	14. Chapter 14

14

Greetings

Varric suddenly sat up and wiped the sleep from his eyes. The tent flap had opened, and a figure stepped through. Varric’s eyes slowly adjusted to see King Alistair. He lowered himself to one knee. “No need to bow,” King Alistair told him, holding his hand up, while walking toward Alyne’s bed. His eyes were fixed on her, and tears began to gather in his eyes. Alyne’s chest rose and fell in sharp bursts. The red lyrium crystals had grown along her arm and across her chest. Her face would occasionally twist in pain. King Alistair knelt beside her bed. His hand wavered over her cheek. “I have a daughter,” he whispered to himself. His voice cracked. He brushed away her bangs and stroked his hand along her cheek. He took her right hand and kissed it. “ _I have a daughter._ ” He closed his eyes and then turned to ask Varric, “What’s her name?”

“Her real name is Briala, but she goes by Alyne.”

“Her mother’s name,” he whispered breathlessly.

“As you can see,” Varric explained shakily, “red lyrium is taking over. It won’t kill her, but it might be better if it did.”

“This is blighted lyrium. Between my templar and my Grey Warden training, I can sense both. I can . . .” he took a deep, trembling breath, “I can destroy the red lyrium, but it will kill her.” He let a tear slid down his face and onto the cheek of the only daughter he would likely ever have. The daughter he had just met. The daughter who looked just like her beloved, heroic mother.

Varric nodded and left to allow King Alistar to help Alyne find peace.


	15. Chapter 15

15

Consciousness

Alistair was done. He took Alyne’s cold hand and let his tears come. His heart thudded ferociously. “Please wake up,” he whispered. “ _Please wake up._ ” He hoped against hope that somehow she would still be alive. However, she did not move. He closed his eyes, and a few tears leaked out. “Wake up!” He brought her hand to his face and held it against his cheek. His tears dropped to her hand and ran down her arm. Her eyes opened slightly.

“I’m alive?” she asked wearily. Alistair’s eyes shot open.

“Yes! You are!”

“Who are you?”

Alistair squeezed her hand with excitement. “I’m your father! I saved you! I can’t believe it! Maker’s breath!”

Alyne blinked slowly. Then her eyes widened. “You’re my father?” She unexpectedly leapt up and hugged him, tears quickly running down her face. “Thank you,” she sobbed. “Thank you.” He returned the embrace, though was shaken at how she could be alive. The red lyrium inside of her was destroyed. If that was what had been keeping her alive, she should be dead.

“I couldn’t save your mother,” he whispered, “but I saved you.” He pushed the impossibility to a corner of his mind. She was alive. That was all that mattered.

Alyne’s cheek pressed against his cold armor, but she didn’t care. She finally had someone.

_Wait. I already have someone. Varric._

She slowly pulled herself away. “I need to let Varric know I’m all right.” She grabbed some wooden crutches that had been left near her bed by a nurse. Varric was sitting on the ground with his back to the tent and a flask of whiskey in hand. He did not appear to have drunk any. Bianca, the crossbow, lay on the ground next to him. Alyne gingerly stepped out and walked behind him. She heard him quickly inhale in surprise, and he reached for Bianca. “It’s me, Alyne,” she said calmly, setting a hand on his shoulder. She knelt beside him, and he looked at her with such wide eyes one might have mistaken him for an owl had it been nighttime. “H-how?” Alyne cut him off by embracing him.

“You’re alive,” he whispered in awe.

“Yes,” she said with tears cascading down her reddened cheeks, “I’m not sure how, but I am.”

She felt normal. She finally remembered what normal felt like. Her memories had returned. She remembered her mother’s face that greatly resembled her own. And her white hair that had changed color from the stressful times of the Blight. Her mother’s hands. They had a unique roughness to them. Like the bottom of a Dalish elf’s foot who wore the traditional non-soled shoes. Except her callouses were smooth in a way. Comforting. Her hands were a reassurance that everything would be all right. And she remembered the Keeper who always disliked her mother and her. Along with the rest of the clan. All except for Dalish and her mage tutor, who, she recalled now, were one and the same. Dalish helped her to be a rebel. She helped Alyne, or as she now remembered herself, Briala, train––occasionally riding a large halla or leaving the clan for days at a time. She remembered the pain of the Keeper giving her the vallaslin tattoos on her face before the age of eighteen. She had not uttered a sound of pain, thankfully, because nearly the entire clan thought she did not deserve it, and she did not want to give them the satisfaction of her whimpers being heard. She had brought back a lost halla, redeeming herself in their eyes for the time being. Her tattoos had been dedicated to the old elven god Dirthamen, or the elven god of secrets. Then she remembered the red templars invading her clan’s camp. They shot many of her clan members with the red lyrium-tipped arrows, likely in hopes of making them fight for Corypheus’s cause, too. Despite Corypheus being years dead, the red templars continued fighting, for there was no going back to their previous lives. The other elves were slaughtered by the sword. The screams were deafening, horrifying. She was one of the victims of the arrow. She recalled the slowness of her fall after being struck with the arrow, then absolute pain. It ended quickly. Her life slipped into a crevasse, thought to never be seen again by mortal eyes. She was in the Fade for a time before she realized that she still had a hand on the cliff’s edge. Above it she saw her mother walking, not noticing her. Briala looked back down and saw the members of her clan, all slowly joining each other in the crevasse. Briala had pulled herself up and swung her legs over the ledge. Her mother was walking away. “Mother!” Briala had moved to join her, but as soon as she made the move, she was breathing, sitting up in her own body, with none of her memories.

The red lyrium had blocked her memories, she realized. Its properties under normal circumstances would make people go insane, but since she had teetered on the edge of death, she subconsciously fought against the deadly singing of the red lyrium until it destroyed her memories. Now that the red lyrium was gone, she was fully alive again, and her mind was restored. It hadn’t been the lyrium that saved her. But if that wasn’t it, what was it that revived her? Why had she been fortunate enough to fall near the edge of the crevasse?

Since her mother had not been with the clan at the time of the attack, she wondered where the true Alyne was. She then recalled her mother had left the clan several years before in search of a cure for the Calling and promised she would come back to Briala. She had cupped her calloused hand around Briala’s face, providing that unique comfort. So, where was her mother now? Was she even still alive? Maybe Briala would never get answers to these questions.

Alistair stepped out, and she smiled at her father from Varric’s shoulder.

“I can’t believe your mother was able to get pregnant.” Alistair scratched his head. “I thought it was nearly impossible for Grey Wardens to make children.”

Varric answered, “It is. But there is still a possibility, isn’t there?”

Alistair replied, “Yes, but––”

“Well then, you have your answer. There _is_ a possibility, which means it has to be able to happen. In this case, it did.”

“Does this mean I have to be the queen some day?” Briala asked her father as she pulled away from the embrace.

He frowned curiously. “Do you want to?”

“No!” She stuck out her tongue and shook her head causing Alistair and Varric to laugh. “Too many dresses, not enough weapons.”

“Alyne––”

“Briala,” she corrected. He seemed to be puzzled. “My mother gave me the name, Briala. I remember now.” The men’s eyes widened, but they asked no questions on the matter at the time. There were larger questions in their minds.

Alistair walked over, set his hand on her shoulder, and spoke quietly, “Briala, if you don’t want to become queen, I can’t let you come home with me. People would ask questions. I’m sorry.”

Varric and Briala both looked at each other and smiled. “That’s okay.” She waved it off. “Varric here will take care of me.”

Alistair stood and looked at Varric. “Do you promise you will protect my daughter?”

He nodded. “Yes, your Highness. I will protect your daughter. I swear it.”

Alistair studied him. “I believe you,” he said after a moment. He clapped his hand on Varric’s back. “I’ll be visiting here often.” He turned to his daughter. “Goodbye. Remember to write.” He smiled and kissed her forehead. His armored boots clattered on the cobblestones as he left Skyhold, occasionally looking back to see Briala.


	16. Chapter 16

16

Woof

**Three months later**

The Inquisitor sat up in bed. Images of a wolf flashed through her mind. She felt a strong urge to find that wolf. Fen’Harel was his name. In some images, the wolf was beautiful, graceful, peaceful. In others it had many red, glowing eyes and black fur. It snarled and paced as if cornered. She slid her legs off the bed, stood, and began to change into her armor. The stars shone through her window much like her now glowing eyes. Those eyes shone with a strange whiteish-blue light. The red in her eyes was now as nonexistent as the red lyrium arrow Varric had finally destroyed. She walked soundlessly to Cullen Rutherford’s room where a small part of her knew a reliable sword was. Maybe she would have felt the excitement of preparing for an adventure for the first time in years if all her thoughts weren’t trained on the Dread Wolf. He was all that mattered. Not the Inquisition. Not even herself. She walked to her door and left without a second glance. With the hallways empty besides half-asleep guards, she had no trouble leaving Skyhold. No one would even notice until the next morning, giving her plenty of time to escape into the snow-covered mountains. Or so the Dread Wolf thought. More flashes of the Dread Wolf raced through her mind while she trudged through the snow. Some images vaguely reminded her of the Well of Sorrows from which she drank in the Temple of Mythal. The voices in her head that came after she drank from the well were suddenly louder. It had been a long time since she had heard them, and it was difficult to decipher what they were saying. Her legs moved without the control of her mind. They pulled her through the wilderness to the location of the Dread Wolf, a location she had ironically been searching for for years.


	17. Chapter 17

17

Dreaded

“The Dread Wolf will restore our world. He will save the elves from those who have destroyed this one.” The elf spat at Briala.

“I _am_ an elf. You don’t have to be cryptic about it.” She pressed the knife harder against his throat. He blew back his brownish black hair, leaning forward as he did so; he wasn’t even afraid of the knife. As she did not know his name, she made note of his vining vallaslin and a burn mark on his face––the burn was in the shape of a hand, and the vallaslin of Mythal. He had been Dalish once.

“You are only a half-elf. Elves hate you. Humans hate you. You have no one. Come to the Dread Wolf where every elf is accepted.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I would rather not follow an elf who wants to destroy the world as we know it,” she replied.

“But he will remake it!” He exclaimed, nearly jumping into the knife’s edge.

“I’m taking you to the Inquisitor. Get up.” She slowly lifted the blade from his neck but held the tip near as he stood. She saw the gleam of steel reflect the kitchen oven’s glow too late as it plunged into her hand. She grunted and then ignored the knife he had painfully thrust into her palm. She shoved him back onto the tabletop. “Don’t try that again.”

“What will the Inquisitor do with me?” The man’s voice wavered a bit.

“I can’t speak for her, but I will assure you she will not allow you to report back to Solas.”

“Well, then. That settles it.” The man pushed himself up, driving the knife through his throat. He gagged, then pulled the knife out before Briala could stop him. He was dead within a minute.

“Crap.” She buried her knife in a cutting board and left the kitchen. She would have to inform the Inquisitor. First, she pulled the knife out of her other hand and laid it beside the one stuck in the cutting board. She tied a clean towel from a nearby cabinet around her waist to avoid bleeding all over Skyhold. She was already disliked there enough as it was. Unfortunately, the kitchen staff would have to deal with this mess on their own.

As she walked into the great hall, she looked to her right where Varric was usually standing––next to the fireplace, ready to greet visitors with his humor. He had gone back to Kirkwall after the fifth letter arrived from his advisor telling him he needed to come back or he would “sow the viscount crown to his scalp and meld his bottom to the throne.” He regrettably left, saying he wished someone else would do his job. Briala was left alone and began to work for the Inquisitor to seek out corruption within their ranks. The Inquisitor wanted spies alive at all costs.

 _Oops_.

The Inquisitor wasn’t on her throne at the moment. She could be anywhere in Skyhold. Maybe Briala should have asked around first. She decided she would check in the Inquisitor’s room to awake the least amount of people as possible.

Candles in sconces and torches on the walls provided a meager amount of light. It was wintertime, so it was dark outside already. Hundreds of stars could be seen through the windows, except for in the Scar. The Scar was a void in the sky. During the day it was always devoid of clouds. During the night it almost seemed it still led somewhere like the Fade. It was so dark at night that it was pure black. It was unpleasant to look at but was a reminder of the sacrifices made to close the rift to the Fade and how the world would have ended had it not been for the Inquisitor.

Briala rapped on the door. “Inquisitor?” The hall was nearly silent; nearly everyone had retired to their chambers. Her words echoed around, unsettling her. She knocked again, harder, thinking the Inquisitor possibly couldn’t hear her. This time the door creaked open. Her eyes widened, and she pushed it open broader. She stepped through, wishing she had kept the knife from the kitchen. The Inquisitor no longer wanted her to carry daggers around in Skyhold because she didn’t want any death within the Inquisition.

 _Well, look how well that turned out_ , Briala thought to herself.

It was nearly impossible to see in the Inquisitor’s chambers. Briala almost tripped on the first step leading into her room. She began to feel her way around and cautiously started up the short flight of stairs.

No sound came from the empty room. The bed, sheets rumpled, held no Inquisitor. Briala cursed and left the room to ask Commander Cullen if he had seen her. He was the second most likely person to know her location, for he was always informed when the Inquisitor left on a mission. Leliana, the Inquisition’s spymaster, was the first likely to know the Inquisitor’s location, but she scared Briala too much to make the effort of asking worthwhile.

Cullen’s room was in a separate area, so Briala was forced to sneak outside in the cold, wintery mountain air, up the stairs to the battlements, through a threshold containing a creaky oaken door, and up a ladder. The only sound that could be heard from the commander’s room once inside was the snoring. It sounded as if a great bear had replaced him. Briala saw––with the little light coming from the moon and stars outside––that the snoring was coming from Commander Cullen, or, as Varric called him, Curly. His distinguishing cloak with an abundant amount of fur lining the neck hung from a peg on the wall beside his bed.

Briala tried to comfort herself with the thought, _This might be an emergency. I’ll have to wake him._

She walked around to the commander’s side of the bed and shook him, feeling more foolish by the second. He continued to snore. She then slapped him, thinking time was precious. He instantly awoke, and his hand darted to his nightstand where a sword in its sheath should have rested. It was missing. He blinked a few times as he tried to make out who was standing beside him. “Briala?” He spoke sleepily. “What are you _doing_ in here? What’s wrong?”

“I was trying to find that out myself. I can’t find the Inquisitor. Her room was empty, so I came to ask you,” Briala answered, her words tumbling over one another in her distress.

“Then obviously you didn’t look hard enough if I was the first one you’ve asked. Why would you ask _me_ first?”

“Well . . .”

“Spit it out.”

His commanding voice made her obey. “There is a rumor you and the Inquisitor are beginning to talk . . .” She smiled and lifted her eyebrows despite the situation.

“Where’s my sword?” He grunted, trying to ignore her implications. He moved to stand up, and Briala shielded her eyes. “Well . . . I know where one of yours is.” He looked down and quickly used the sheets to cover himself. “Ew, you sleep like that? That’s disgusting.” Briala made a barfing face. Cullen narrowed his eyes and moved to the dresser with the sheets wrapped around his lower half. Briala turned around as he changed. “Do you have any idea where she could be?”

“No. She would never just leave unless it was extremely urgent.” He slid his chainmail vest and breastplate over his head and threw on his cloak.

“Well, I’m sure it wasn’t disappointment with you that made her leave.” It took a moment for Cullen to understand.

“Ugh. You are too adult for your age. She and I . . . we’ve never . . . Solas and her . . .”

“I’m fifteen now, I’ve died, and met my father who was the king. I think I _deserve_ to act grown up. Some girls marry at my age.” Briala changed the subject. “Her room looked like she took enough supplies to last a long time. Her armor was gone, and so is one of your swords.” She studied his wall. Cullen narrowed his eyes again. “That doesn’t quite make sense, though. She’s a mage. Wouldn’t she grab a mage’s staff?”

“You’re correct about it being strange. However, she does know how to use a sword. Maybe something is wrong with her magic. Whatever the case, it sounds like she’s going on a journey, maybe even a secret mission. But I don’t understand why she didn’t tell me.” Cullen shook his head. “Maybe it has something to do with her dreams.”

“Her dreams?”

“You haven’t heard them? I thought everyone in Skyhold could.” His sigh expressed a heartfelt sense of caring for the Inquisitor. “All that has happened to her has caused her to sleep fitfully, to put it mildly. Some nights she is nearly quiet, a single cry for help maybe, or whispering she is sorry about something. Other nights she can be heard sobbing about Solas’s death, something she likely believes will happen but hopes it will not come to pass. Most of the time, however, she cries out in elven. That’s what it sounds like, at least. She claims to know nothing about it, but it is plain to everyone that it is affecting her.” He inhaled, signaling an epiphany. “What if she found Solas? What if she is trying to join him?”

“We need to find her. There is a reason why she doesn’t adventure anymore. I need some weapons. I’ll need you to accompany me to the armory. You know what it’ll look like if someone sees an elf gathering weapons at night from the Inquisition.”

“Okay.” Cullen followed her out of the chambers and the great hall, then into the armory where she grabbed two jagged daggers and a broadsword. Cullen armed himself with a one-handed sword and frowned. “Why did the Inquisitor have to take mine?” he complained. He attached the sheath to his belt and began to walk toward the door when Briala spoke.

“You ought to get a shield too.” She traced her fingers along the mage staffs and shook her head.

Cullen walked back and grabbed a templar shield. “I’m ready.” He nervously glanced at the door.

“Look away.” Cullen obliged as she changed into armor.

“Okay, I’m ready,” Briala spoke. Cullen turned around. “We should get food,” she whispered. Then she remembered the elf corpse still inside the kitchen. “Uh, you can wait outside the kitchen. I’ll get the supplies.”

“Fine, but hurry up.” Cullen glanced over his shoulder at the door again.

“When was the last time you did something like this?” Cullen began to count off on his fingers. “Just stop. I know you’re old. I was just wondering how old.” Briala wasn’t watching him anymore but was certain he had narrowed his eyes again. She slowly opened the door and inspected the outdoors for guards. They all seemed to be asleep.

 _Good for us_.

She motioned for Cullen to follow her to the northern part of Skyhold where the kitchen was. They quietly walked, mostly keeping to the shadows just in case. Cullen waited outside the door as Briala stepped in. She tried not to look at the elf corpse as she gathered bread, cheese, dried meat, and waterskins. Leaving faster than she came in, she motioned for Cullen to follow her. She swung the satchel containing the supplies and walked toward the entrance to Skyhold. Cullen’s weapon and shield clanged against one another every two steps. Briala winced every time he did so, and by the time they were near the gate, Briala’s eyes were wide, and she continued to twitch, ready for his armor’s “song.” Occasionally the guards would awake with a jerk then slide into sleep once again. Briala’s pulse pounded in her pointed ears while they walked, or rather, clanged by a guard whose eyes were open. How did he not see them? Briala continued to glance back after she passed him on the bridge that led out of Skyhold. Once they made it to the mountain path, Briala asked Cullen, “How did that guard not notice us? His eyes were wide open.”

“Oh, that guy. Yeah, his eyelids were cut off after he lost a battle. He was a renegade Avvar, a tribe of, well, I wouldn’t call them Ferelden people. Anyway, he protested against one of his men catapulting a goat against the walls of Skyhold, so he competed in a trial by combat to see who was right, and, long story short, his eyelids are no more.”

“You’re _full_ of interesting stories, aren’t you?”

“It was the Inquisitor’s decision! She didn’t want the Avvar to be banished from his tribe for her sake, so she hired him as a guard and even kept him when the Inquisition shrank to its current size.”

Briala was quiet as she thought about the Inquisitor. She was certain Cullen was doing the same. “Lanahris really is a good person,” Briala said quietly. “I understand why you love her.” She hesitated.

“L-love her? I––”

“I won’t tell anyone.” She smirked.

“W-what about me? Don’t you like me too?” Cullen smiled, and the scar above his lip curved with it in a pleasant way.

“You want me to say you’re the best father figure I’ve ever had, don’t you?” she asked skeptically.

“Well, yes––”

“No. I already have one funny, handsome dad who is the king, helped stop the Fifth Blight, saved my life, and, strangely, looks almost exactly like you. My other ‘dad’ is Varric who is the viscount of Hightown, who also saved my life and has the same color hair as you and my dad. Wow, now that I think about it, all of my ‘dads’ have the same hair color. Are there any decent men in Thedas who _don’t_ have this hair color?”

“Sure there are. There’s . . .” Cullen thought for a moment. “There _are_ a lot of blond men in Thedas, aren’t there?”

She whispered, “Keep moving.” They trudged through the three-foot layer of snow as they went further into the mountains. The Inquisitor’s tracks gave them an easy trail to follow until the wind ominously began to howl, bringing with it millions of snowflakes. This sort of unexpected storm was common in the area, but that made it no less unpleasant. The travelers shielded their eyes from the piercing winds and prayed there would not be a blizzard. No one knew where they were. If they were trapped in such a storm or injured by it, there would be no help for many days, if at all. “We need to hurry!” Briala shouted in the fury of the wind.

“It’s hard when we’re trying to walk through three feet of snow!” Cullen retorted.

Briala wouldn’t admit it, but she was cold. Dangerously cold. Cullen’s fur pauldron kept him warm enough. She hadn’t packed well. She continued to shiver and crossed her arms in an attempt to warm herself.

Cullen looked to his side with a concerned gaze. “Briala,” he shouted, “are you all right?”

“Y-yes,” she chattered, straining to be heard. “We can’t rest now.” Her eyes rested on the pass between two mountains that led to Orlais. The Inquisitor’s tracks were disappearing rapidly from the beginnings of the blizzard. It looked like they had another few hours’ journey or so to reach the pass. Briala was unsure that she would make it in time. The Inquisitor could have left the path before reaching the pass, so it was necessary to hurry.

The wind howled even more ferociously in their ears. The cold gales bit at Briala’s pointed earlobes. She was cold. So cold she just wanted to lie down. She stumbled, falling on her knees, then plunged into the deep snow. “Briala!” Cullen shouted. Turning around, he furiously began to dig through the snow. “Briala!” He continued to shout. He found her huddled in a ball, shivering uncontrollably. He took off his cloak and pauldron and set it over her. Wrapping his arms under her knees and back, he lifted her and began to carry her to the pass. She was still conscious and would occasionally mumble something inaudible to Cullen. Her lips were purple, her skin pale, and her ears and nose pink from the cold. The blizzard only increased in fury. Cullen was beginning to feel very cold and wished he had packed another cloak. At least once they reached the pass, the storm would likely be left behind them. They could deal with the temperatures of Emprise Du Lion for long enough. He hoped.

Cullen’s and Briala’s teeth chattered. The Inquisitor’s tracks were almost gone now. It was difficult to see even a few feet in front of them. Cullen forced himself forward step by step through the blazing blizzard. An hour later he heard the sound of grinding snow from above him. Snow, he saw, was tumbling from the mountain peaks, as they were becoming overloaded from the blizzard. The avalanche sped down the mountainside toward them. Cullen gasped and began to run as fast as he could through the thick snow while carrying Briala. The path dipped with a steep drop opposite of the avalanche. Cullen jumped down about ten feet onto the lower ledge. The snow cushioned his fall, and he quickly brought Briala with him to the steep side of the path from which he just jumped. A small rocky overhang protected them as the snow from the avalanche flew over them. Cullen set her down to rest his arms. Briala opened her eyes to watch what some might call a “waterfall of snow.”

“Wow,” she breathed. A small puff like smoke came from her mouth as she said so in the cold air. They were shielded from the harsh winds by a pile of boulders on the side from which the wind came. The blizzard continued after the avalanche ended, and Cullen resumed the journey by helping Briala climb up the boulder pile, then picked her up again.

After hours of the struggle, they made to Emprise Du Lion where they rested, free of the storm. They only hoped they had followed the footprints. However, they had disappeared when Briala and Cullen neared the pass. If he had had more energy, maybe Cullen would have been more nervous about sleeping next to the old elven ruins. But he was exhausted. Cullen nearly collapsed once out of the blizzard. Briala kept watch while he slept, even though her eyelids were becoming heavy. With the taint of the red lyrium removed, she regained the necessities of being alive. She ate, slept, and drank water these days as often as normal people. Living people. Something was keeping her alive. Something other than the red lyrium.

She hadn’t slept for two days, and she was now wishing she had slept before they embarked on their journey. She heard a strange rumbling behind her and turned around. A rage demon approached over the snow, its lava-like skin glowing like a torch and causing steam to rise from the snow. It let loose a horrific roar as it approached and stretched out its four long, claw-like fingers. She thought the monster’s head resembled that of a salamander. Lava dripped from its molten eyes. Briala stood up but kept her sword in its sheath for now. She could handle this without a blade in her hands. The rage demon approached slowly, but approached nonetheless, swiping at Briala with its flaming fingers. She ducked beneath its arm and jumped behind it. Steam erupted from its skin after Briala set her hand on it. The rage demon howled as ice spread over it. The monster shrank to the ground, then into it, and finally, into the Fade itself. A glowing blue light slowly ebbed from her hand. She turned around and noticed Cullen was awake and was prepared for battle. Slowly lowering his sword, he stated simply, “Well, I guess this place isn’t as safe as I thought it would be.”

“I _never_ thought it would be safe.” She turned around and studied the ruins. “There must be a disturbance in the Fade here.”

“We should probably leave.” Cullen slung a satchel over his shoulder.

“You didn’t rest for long,” Briala pointed out. She turned around. “I could continue to keep watch.”

“No. The Veil is likely thin here. There is no telling what could come out next. We should move on.” Cullen began to walk away.

Briala took a nervous glance at the crumbling, ivy-covered walls. “The snow ends in the Emerald Graves, which is where these tracks lead. After that, it will take my tracking skills to find her, which might take too long.”

Desperation gripped at Cullen’s voice. “There has to be _some_ way to track her.”

Briala sorrowfully narrowed her eyes at Cullen and tried to think of a solution. “You are needed back at Skyhold. _I’ll_ continue the search for her.”

Lifting his eyebrows, he asked her, “Really? I don’t think it’s safe . . .”

“I’ll be fine. I just defeated a rage demon by touching it.”

“With your _one_ elemental specialty: ice.”

“I’ve also defeated three of the guards you trained a few months ago.”

He rolled his eyes, seeing he wouldn’t win this argument. “You women are so stubborn.”

“Is that a problem?” Briala set her hands on her hips.

“Well,” Cullen nervously ran his hand through his hair, “the Hero of Ferelden, Marian Hawke, and Inquisitor Lanahris Lavellan are all women and are very stubborn. At least that’s what I’ve heard.”

“That they are all women or that they are all stubborn?” Briala’s eyes narrowed into slits.

“Uh . . .” Cullen cleared his throat. “I meant, er––”

“Sometimes I wonder why the Inquisitor _might_ be interested in you.” Briala shook her head. “Bye.” She waved at him behind her after grabbing her own satchel.

“B-bye,” Cullen muttered. He watched her for a moment before turning back toward Skyhold and venturing back from whence he came.


	18. Chapter 18

18

Relations

Briala threw her hands out to stop her fall but landed in the dirt. “Ugh. Stupid tree roots.” She pushed herself up and brushed off the dirt. There was no true path through the Arbor Wilds where she currently was. The “path” she was following was likely a desperate attempt to convince herself that she was still on Lanahris’s trail when she could be on the other side of Thedas by now. Briala had been following a line of broken branches and faint impressions that she thought looked like footprints. She had traveled for days, maybe even weeks. She noticed it all blended together after a while.

Briala felt a blade at her neck without hearing anyone approach.

“Don’t turn around,” a male voice came from behind her.

“Does it look like that’s what I’m doing?” she asked rhetorically. How could she have been so careless?

“How did you find me?” He pressed the sword closer to her throat. She could tell it had been freshly sharpened, not that he likely got many visitors to make it dull. And she noted the sword was made of a fine metal. Or almost a metal. Ironbark. The same material used for the necklace she now wore every day. The necklace that reminded her of her mother and of her first moments of her new life.

“I don’t know who you are or exactly where I am,” she answered.

“Then what are you doing here?” His voice sounded angry, but underneath was a layer of fear.

“I’m . . .” She hesitated. Should she tell this man why she was in the forest? If she did, would he bring harm to the Inquisitor? Well, she wouldn’t be able to help or warn Lanahris if she had a slit throat. “I’m searching for the Inquisitor.”

He brought the sword away from her throat by an inch. “The Inquisitor? Lanahris Lavellan? What happened to her?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

He brought the blade dangerously close to her throat again. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah. I gathered that.”

“You . . . didn’t come here to harm me or my mother?”

“No.” She thought inwardly, _Unless you hurt me first_.

He brought the sword down and stuck it in a sheath. Briala cautiously turned around to inspect him.

The “man” was actually a young boy who looked to be the same age as she was. He had short, wild, deep brown hair that was nearly black which gave her a vivid recollection of the suicidal elf in the kitchen. He also had brown eyes, though not as dark as his hair. Faint freckles dotted his sculpted face. He wore a leather jerkin adorned with steel Grey Warden heraldry. Briala’s eyes widened. “Are you a Grey Warden?”

He laughed. “No, but my father _was_ one. I’ve had this,” he traced the heraldry with the tips of his fingers, “ever since I can remember.”

“You seem very interested in the Inquisitor,” she said.

“I’ve met her,” he answered. “It was years ago, but I still respect her.”

“I see. Who is your father?” she asked out of curiosity. Her own father was a Grey Warden. Maybe they had met.

“You’re asking for my father’s name and not mine. That hurts!” He laughed again, this time more lightheartedly. Briala forced a chuckle. He calmed himself after a moment. “I’m sorry, but I am not allowed to speak my father’s name to a stranger, much less speak to a stranger.”

“I now feel obliged to ask you for your name.” Briala allowed a slight smile.

He went into a playful bow. “I am Ser Kieran of the Arbor Wilds.”

“Ser?” She asked incredulously.

He waved it off. “I’m just playing. I’ve always wanted to be a Grey Warden. Do you know any Wardens?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Well,” she hesitated, “actually my father was also a Grey Warden.”

“What happened to him?”

“Oh, he was alive and well the last time I saw him. And my mother was a Grey Warden too.”

“I presume your parents were both elves?”

“No,” she answered with a little smirk. He raised his eyebrows. “My mother was the Hero of Ferelden. My father is King Alistair.” She suddenly felt very important and beamed in spite of herself.

Kieran literally stepped back. “Your father,” he said flatly, “is King Alistair?”

“Yes,” she answered proudly.

“ _My_ father is King Alistair.”

Briala began to laugh. “Funny joke, that one. Trying to make me believe you’re my brother.”

“Half-brother,” he corrected with absolute seriousness.

She continued to laugh. “That’s quite specific. First attractive boy my age I meet says I’m his half-sister. Do you not like me or something?” He watched her unblinkingly. “Oh.” She stopped laughing. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“If anyone’s not serious,” he spoke evenly, “it’s you. Human-elf offspring look like humans. Your mother can’t possibly be the elven Hero, and your father likely isn’t King Alistair. It’s just not possible.” He crossed his arms, looking very much like a young child in an argument.

“As it turns out, my name might as well be Impossible,” she snapped back. “I survived an arrow to the heart. The red lyrium that saved me was destroyed, and yet I’m still here, alive.”

“I suppose you are right about being an Impossible girl.” He leaped toward her and held the sword to her throat again. “Tell me the truth!” He pushed the sword into her skin, causing a bit of blood to come out on the blade. “Are you a spy? Are you coming after my mother?”

“I am telling the truth,” she choked out. “And why would I be spying on your mother?”

“You don’t care for your own life, do you?”

“What benefit would I have from lying about my parents, neither of whom are here?”

“I might be less inclined to kill my sister.”

“I swear I’m not trying to kill you!” she shouted. Several birds flapped out of the trees, screeching in discontentment.

“Shh!” he lowered the blade. “My mother likely heard that. If you don’t leave now, you’ll be killed, and it won’t matter by whose hand.”

“Oh, now you help me.” She rolled her eyes. He set a hand over her mouth. His hand was calloused like her mother’s. Briala’s eyes widened.

“Go!” he whispered. There was almost a fear in his eyes. Briala’s heart thrummed, his fear spreading into hers like spilled ink. He released his hand from her mouth. She looked back once before breaking into a run. She felt the sting of branches cutting her across the arms and face in her haste. Ferns swished around her legs. Mushrooms squelched in the mud beneath her booted feet. Colorful birds flew away squawking in groups as she approached them. In her panic she did not question when a raven flew alongside her for several long seconds. The small bird then grew exponentially in size and landed in front of her, blocking her path. The bird’s body then enlarged, the twig-thin legs becoming feet and calves and thighs, a rough skirt falling over the last. The bird’s chest swelled and became pale human skin. The beak and head transformed into a head complete with hair as black as its feathers had been. Black coils slowly dissipated around her after the transformation. Her stark black hair was pulled into a bun. She wore a golden necklace connected to an immodest bra which was partially covered by a red sash that dipped in front of it. A single metal pauldron protected her left shoulder and was adorned with black feathers emerging from beneath it. Her left sleeve was animal hide and ran along the length of her arm while her right sleeve was nonexistent. Her legs and feet were clad in boots and a skirt with tight pants underneath, all made from creatures of the forest. Her eyes were the strangest of all. They gleamed an orange-yellow color. Briala supposed men would have found this woman attractive, by her body and her face. The stranger shared a great resemblance to Kieran and held a simultaneous youth and age about her. The clothes seemed to be part of her transformation.

Briala grabbed her two-handed sword, but the woman had her hands on her own staff already, though Briala could not recall seeing it a second ago. Briala knew not to engage an armed mage without first holding her own weapon. She could be burnt, frozen, or drained of her soul before the sound of her sword being unsheathed rang through the air. Instead, she lowered her fingers tentatively and stared at the mage’s eyes. This woman was an apostate mage, one who had not accepted the Circle of Magi’s ways and was renegade. However, after the war between mages and templars several years before, there were still many “apostate” mages. Maybe this was why she lived in the middle of nowhere. If she was found by the templars, she would likely be executed for her guise alone.

“What is your business in the Arbor Wilds?” the woman asked in an accent that hinted at being Ferelden, yet there was a twist to it. It held a wisdom and mystery that Briala had never heard before. It might have seduced a man easily. That and her clothing, or nearly lack thereof.

“I am searching for the Inquisitor,” Briala tried to answer calmly. She would take no chances of lying to this woman.

“The Inquisitor?” the woman mused. “Do you work for her? For the Inquisition?”

“Yes. I serve Lanahris Lavellan, the Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste.”

The woman’s lips curled into a smile, almost one she would give a young child believing he could become a dragon if he wished hard enough. “Do you truly believe that she is the Herald?”

“No,” she answered without hesitation. She was an elf and did not worship Andraste. She held back her hair to show the woman her ears.

“Ah.” The woman’s smile widened kindly, then darkened. “You are a Dalish elf. I should have noticed your vallaslin sooner. They are quite faint compared to most. I thought you were a city elf trying to stick to the old ways. You are not dressed like a Dalish.” Her gaze turned to Briala’s boots.

“Well, as it turns out, non-soled shoes in the snowy mountains are not ideal,” Briala joked blandly.

“Ha!” Her laugh was quick but joyful, and it ended as abruptly as it began. “I suppose so. You do not seem dangerous, but everyone has secrets. You must understand, wariness means safety in these days.” Her face lowered and hardened into a mysterious regard.

“I mean you and your son no harm.”

A sharp object poked at Briala’s chest. The woman had slowly edged her way toward Briala, misdirecting her with conversation. Briala had not noticed the woman bring her staff toward her chest until it was there––and the end was glowing violet. Briala swallowed nervously. “You will leave this forest now, or I will kill you.”

Kieran stepped through the brush, holding up his hands. “Mother! Don’t harm her!”

“Why should I not?” she asked her son without turning her gaze.

“If she meant us harm, she would have done so already.”

The woman faltered with the staff. It shook slightly. Briala knew this was the perfect time to strike away the weapon, to flee, but this was one situation that would be worse if she ran away. No, she needed these people to trust her. She continued to stand, acting vulnerable, though she could have killed the two of them if she really wanted to. Maybe.

Lowering her weapon, the woman spoke kindly. “My name is Morrigan. If you truly mean no harm, you are welcome in this forest, at least in my eyes. The creatures may have their own opinions.”

“I am Briala, daughter of King Alistair and the Hero of Ferelden.” There was a moment of silence and then the sound of crickets chirping.

“I suppose that is sensible,” Morrigan said quietly. Kieran’s lower jaw dropped in surprise that his mother thought this was plausible. “Alyne loved Alistair. If they were somehow able to create a child, I could understand why someone _like_ you would exist, but not you.”

“ _Like_ me?” Briala lifted her eyebrows skeptically.

Morrigan frowned and studied Briala’s features. “You do have the facial features of your parents, but the child of an elf and a human would look human.”

Briala interjected, “Yes, I’ve heard that before.”

“Your hair is the wrong color. Neither of your parents naturally possessed that hair color.” Morrigan stepped forward––uncaring of the fact she was still a stranger––and ran her fingers through Briala’s hair. “You have unique power in you. Like that of your mother, but stronger. Her hair was nearly like this after she found a unique Elvhen artifact.”

Briala stepped back. “What do you mean? Why is the color of my hair so important? And how do you know my parents?”

“I fought in the final battle against the archdemon. I helped Alyne defeat it.” She smiled. “The father of _my_ son was Alistair. But do not worry.” She held up her hands. “Alyne loved Alistair. I only slept with Alistair to keep Alyne and him alive. It was an Old God ritual.”

“So,” Briala looked back at Kieran, “you really are my half-brother.”

Morrigan continued to stare at her hair. “‘Tis more important than you realize. Elves have not possessed this color hair since the age of the Evanuris. I sense great power in you, though not quite that of a mage.”

Briala was becoming frustrated. A stranger was stroking her hair, saying she had slept with Briala’s father, and that Briala had some kind of power in her. “Speak simply, woman! Tell me what is going on!”

Morrigan backed away with no expression on her face. “I ask that you come to my abode so that I may research your power.”

“‘Research’? You mean study me?” Briala crossed her arms, shaking her head. “No. I have to find the Inquisitor.”

“Wait.” Morrigan’s eyes flashed in surprise, and she gripped Briala’s shoulders. “In what direction is the Inquisitor headed?”

“Southwest, but with this detour I have taken she is likely about a league northwest of here if I have tracked her correctly.”

“The Temple of Mythal,” Morrigan whispered anxiously to herself.

“We must go.” Morrigan turned to Kieran. “Stay here. Stay safe.” She cupped her hand around his cheek, but he pushed it away.

“I’m coming too,” he told her sternly.

“This is more dangerous than a hunting trip, Kieran!” she snapped. “This is about the end of the world, and our friend may unwittingly be helping the enemy.”

Briala asked cautiously, “Who _is_ this enemy?”

Morrigan turned around. “The Inquisitor was foolish enough to drink from the Well of Sorrows, giving the goddess Mythal the power to control her. ‘Twas the Inquisitor who insisted to drink from the well instead of me. My mother, who is possessed with the spirit of Mythal, can now control her. Within the past years I learned she has been working with Solas to bring about the age of the elves once more, thus resulting in the ripping of the Veil between our world and the Fade and likely destroying this world in the process.”

“It sounds like you have some parental issues,” Briala pointed out.

“Why did you never tell me this?” Kieran asked, sounding hurt.

“There is not time for this. We must move. They could be destroying the Veil as we speak.” Morrigan walked away. Briala looked back at Kieran before following her. He didn’t seem fazed by his abandonment. In fact, he almost seemed happy that they were leaving.

Morrigan and Briala traversed the jungle-like forest. Parrots occasionally squawked near them before flapping away into the green canopy. Mud squelched beneath their boots, spraying it along their pants and Morrigan’s skirt. Bugs zipped around them, some trying to drink their blood, others trying to suck up their sweat. Briala furiously slapped at the insects. She had grown up in a forest, but not one as wild as this. Gargantuan trees likely aging back hundreds if not thousands of years towered over their heads. Water droplets from the high leaves dribbled down. Mushrooms sprouted nearly everywhere. The forest had changed quickly into this jungle, Briala noted.

It wasn’t until they were immediately in front of the temple that Briala saw it through the dense foliage. Crumbling masonry stood in piles everywhere, yet it still held magic in it. The doorways curved gracefully to a pointed apex and were large enough to permit access to several elves abreast. Intricate elven designs were carved into long stretches of stone in the walls and around the doors. Moss-covered statues stood like sentinels near the entrance. High above, graceful round-topped spires caressed the canopy of ancient trees. The temple reached out to greet Briala’s lineage, and she felt empowered by the remnant of her ancestors. If only her clan could have seen this. Maybe even lived here. She wanted to embrace the fine work. To never leave it. To let it consume her. Her heart thudded in her small chest with elation, feeling she was finally home.

“I haven’t been here in years,” Morrigan whispered. She was also taken away by the handiwork, though not as much as Briala. “Come,” she said more loudly. “We must continue.”

Briala regretfully ended her staring in admiration but was quickly appeased when she saw the interior. If anything, the greenery enveloping the columns inside made the temple appear as if it had melded into the forest, and it seemed more like her home. Bowing or sleeping dragon statues––Briala couldn’t tell which––greeted them. She pondered the existence of the wolf statues, meant to be Fen’Harel. He was the trickster god of the elven pantheon. Why would he be in Mythal’s temple?

Intricate mosaics decorated the once-flawless white-stone walls. Briala’s eyes darted around while she followed Morrigan through the enormous relic. Despite the architectural marvel of this masterpiece, signs of decay were evident in the walls. What had once been golden walls now seemed to be deteriorating. The statues contained cracks and many breaks. The golden mosaics were peeling. Briala had never seen this sort of degradation.

“Everything the elves did was once part of both the Fade and this world,” Morrigan explained, as if reading her mind. “When Fen’Harel erected the Veil, it resulted in an effect equivalent to destroying the foundation of a building. Most Elvhen architecture crumbled and fell to ruin immediately. This is one of the few structures left to stand the test of time.” Morrigan and Briala studied the walls thoughtfully, both thinking of the majesty it had once possessed, but it was now abandoned to the forest and the animals thereof. “The Inquisitor made the point to me,” Morrigan continued in a melancholy manner, “that Fen’Harel created the Veil to stop the elven lords from enslaving other elves with their stronger magic. The Veil prevented them from using the magic as easily, but it also destroyed the Elvhen people. It made them mortal. It made their culture disappear. The humans who arrived from some unknown place easily overtook the elves. The humans created the Tevinter Imperium, Ferelden, Orlais, and all the other nations we now know.

“Lanahris thinks Fen’Harel, or Solas, as you might know him, is trying to make up for his mistake. He has seen that he reduced the elves to living in alienages or straining to retain any of their history by being Dalish.” Morrigan glanced at Briala. “Lanahris believes Solas can be redeemed. She believes he is trying to atone for the fall of the Elvhen by sacrificing himself for a hopeless cause. She said that when she was transported to the future in which Corypheus won and this world was in ruin, she would have done anything to return here, to correct her mistake. She thinks what he is doing is no different than her trip to the future. Solas awoke in a time in which the Elvhen way of life was destroyed because of his actions. He wants everything to go back to the way it was.”

“What do _you_ believe?”

Morrigan glanced down at her again, seeming startled by Briala asking for her opinion. “I do not think I have the right to an opinion on the matter. I am a human. If he does tear down the Veil, the elves might be the only sentient beings left. I am a biased party. In any case, a plan that results in the destruction of the world is not a good plan in my eyes.”

Briala nodded absently, thinking of the implications of this plan.

She finally returned to the present and continued inspecting the temple. Briala did not care how long it took to walk through the temple. Every step was magnificent. Until they reached a giant hole in the floor of the temple. Morrigan climbed down the vines twisting their way into the hole. Briala followed her into the darkness. Below were catacombs. A torch lit with green fire burned in a sconce to their right. Morrigan grabbed the torch and began to walk the path through the catacombs. Bones were scattered throughout the tunnels with red lyrium growing from them. Briala grimaced, knowing something like that could have happened to her if her father hadn’t destroyed the lyrium in her. They continued walking through the temple, occasionally switching a lever to open a door. They passed many piles of bones on the way to the center of the temple.

They finally arrived at the center of the temple where they saw a green light shining throughout the space from the top of a flight of stairs. The brightness increased slowly and was already too bright to look at directly. The shadows of the trees in the courtyard slimmed into almost nothing. Morrigan ignored the light and ran forward blindly. Briala lost her in the light and shouted her name. She covered her eyes with her hand as she stumbled forward, hoping she wouldn’t fall into a hole like the one at the beginning of the temple.

“No!” Morrigan’s voice shouted from the other side of the courtyard, though from a higher position than Briala thought possible. The light instantly disappeared.

“Morrigan!” Briala shouted again. Her eyes took a moment to recover, so she felt her way toward the steps to her right. She blinked rapidly, her eyes watering. The steps slowly came into focus. She tripped once in her haste and blindness but continued on. Ahead was a hill reachable only by a strenuous climb, made possible only by her tree-climbing background while in her Dalish camp. She scrambled up the tree roots winding around the hill. Once on top, she could see as her vision gradually recovered, were mirrors at least three times as tall as herself and a large, concentric, shallow depression in the center of the level. Only one mirror was intact and glowed with a blue light. It rippled as if pebbles were being thrown into it. The Inquisitor lay in a heap on the ground in front of the active mirror. Briala ran forward and knelt beside her. “Inquisitor!” She shook her. “Lanahris!” She paused to listen for breathing. The Inquisitor slightly stirred, groaning. Her hands sluggishly went to her head in pain.

Lanahris’s eyes then shot open, and she jerked awake. “Solas!”

“He’s not here. Not anymore.” Briala wondered if she imagined a tear escape the Inquisitor’s eye.

“Where?” she asked after blinking away the little remaining drowsiness.

“The Temple of Mythal,” Briala answered. She helped Lanahris sit up.

“This is the second time I’ve fallen unconscious here,” Lanahris remarked, studying her surroundings and slowly pushing herself up into a wobbly standing position. “What happened? How am I here? I remember thinking about Solas, but I always––I’ve said too much.” A sudden blush rose in Lanahris’s cheeks, but she did not smile.

A male voice came from behind them, and they turned around in surprise. “Solas, who absorbed Mythal, was controlling you because of your connection to Mythal from the Well of Sorrows.” Kieran took his last step up the stairs leading to the platform. He smiled at Briala slyly. “Aren’t you surprised I’m here?”

She returned the gesture. “No.” Her gaze turned back to the mirror. Its glow was fading. She started forward before a hand caught her arm.

“No. We can’t follow her in there.” She turned around to see Lanahris stopping her. “That’s an eluvian. They lead to the Crossroads, where all the eluvians lead. It is like a maze. One wrong turn, and you’ll never get back. I’ve almost gotten lost in there myself once or twice.”

“What do you mean, ‘She might never come out’?” Briala looked back at the mirror. The ripples and glow were dying away faster now.

Kieran said, “My mother is one of the only living explorers of the Crossroads. She knows what she’s doing, but if we go in there, we’ll only be a liability, or worse, get lost forever.”

Briala relaxed her pull against Lanahris’s grip. “Okay.” She looked down and quietly spoke to Kieran. “I’m sorry. I’m the one who told her about the Inquisitor. She wouldn’t have come here if I hadn’t met you.”

“My mother explores the eluvians all the time.” He waved it off. “She’s doing her thing, saving the world. Again.” Though he seemed nonchalant about the matter, Briana could sense a note of panic in his voice.

“What now?” Briala asked them. “We can’t follow her in there, but, apparently, the world is ending, and we are the only people here who can do something about it.”

“We need to find _your_ mother,” he answered, watching the glowing of the mirror fade into its usual dusty, semi-reflective surface. “Do you have any idea where she is?”

She tried to remember anything her mother had told her regarding her absence, but nothing came to her mind. “No.”

Lanahris interjected. “I received news that she was going to the Anderfels, to Weisshaupt Fortress.”

“The home of the Grey Wardens,” Kieran whispered in awe.

“Unfortunately,” Lanahris said, “I am needed at Skyhold. I presume people think I’m missing.” She squinted at Briala. “And how exactly _did_ you get here?”

“I was following your trail,” she replied. “Cullen and I went searching for you, but he was also needed at Skyhold, so I continued the search on my own.”

“He let a fifteen-year-old wander halfway across Thedas alone? I will need to teach him a thing or two.” She grunted. “Well,” she turned back to the two of them, “I guess I’m as bad as he is, letting _two_ fifteen-year-olds wander across Thedas, but if you made it all this way, I believe I can trust you. After all, you are both children of the king, and one of you is the daughter of the Hero of Ferelden, the other the son of the fiercest woman I’ve ever met.” She gave Kieran a motherly smile. “You’ve grown so much since I last saw you.” Red flooded his cheeks. “Goodbye.”

“Wait,” Kieran said. “Is the Hero even still at Weisshaupt? It’s been years since my mother helped you find her.”

Lanahris turned around and sighed. “I don’t know if she’s still there, but I do know that she’s in danger, and that there is someone else there who can help.” She studied what remained of her left arm. “I can’t quite use my magic like I once did, but I can send you help. Just be careful.”

Both nodded. “Good luck, Inquisitor,” Briala stated.

“And to you, Impossible Child.” Lanahris smiled, waved with her right hand, and turned away. The end of a sword sheath wagged behind her like the tail of a dog, but the sword itself was missing. At least Cullen had a spare.


	19. Chapter 19

19

Paternal

“Another three days’ journey and we should be at the Auguste River. From there we can stow away on a boat and follow the river until it reaches the strait that connects the Waking Sea and Lake Celestine. Then we follow the Imperial Highway to Weisshaupt.”

“You make it sound so simple.” Kieran poked at the fire with a stick. Tongues of flame licked the air, warming the small camp better than before.

Briala looked up from the fire and into the flames dancing in Kieran’s eyes. “I’m certain we can make it.”

“How do you know so much about Orlais? Weren’t you in the Dales for the past fourteen years of your life?”

“No. Our clan journeyed. I have not lived in the Exalted Plains for my whole life.”

“Hmmm.” Kieran seemed distracted. His face was twisted with worry.

Briala moved to the other side of the fire and sat beside him. “You’re my brother.”

“Half-brother,” he corrected.

“I am here for you.” She took his hand in friendship and smiled. He immediately let go.

“Your elven magic is strong and ancient. I can feel it too easily.”

“I didn’t know you were a mage.” Her eyebrows raised in question.

“I used to be. Sort of. Until my grandmother, Flemeth, removed the Old God from me. You have a similar feeling to you. _Similar_.”

“You had an Old God in you?”

He smiled despondently. “It’s a long story. My mother had a child with Alistair to prevent him and your mother from dying in the battle against the archdemon. The Old God possessing the dragon then passed into me until Flemeth removed it.” He continued quietly, “I feel like I have no purpose now but to be a Grey Warden. To be one of Thedas’s champions like my father and the Hero.”

“Join the Inquisition.”

“It will become corrupt one day. Something that large can’t last. Not after Lanahris Lavellan leaves once and for all.”

“What of the Grey Wardens? Do you believe they will be corrupted?”

“No. They have one cause: stop the Blight. There will only be two more Blights. Then the Grey Wardens will likely disband, waiting for the Calling unless your mother finds the cure she is so desperately searching for. The Inquisition has an infinite number of causes. They claim to want peace, but for whom? When Lanahris Lavellan is gone, who will take over? Will this new Inquisitor wish to abandon that power? Will the “Herald of Andraste” disband it before she retires? Or will the Inquisition use its might to conquer the nations. There are too many uncertainties about the Inquisition’s purpose for it to be pure.”

“That is your opinion.” She chuckled. “I once heard Varric say, ‘Opinions are like balls. Once you kick ‘em, it doesn’t matter how many you’ve got.’”

Kieran laughed in spite of himself. “I should like to know this Varric, though I may have met him once before during my previous visit to Skyhold.”

“That’s right. You’ve been to Skyhold. What was your favorite room?”

His smile showed in the firelight. “Everywhere. I could feel this peaceful magic, like the magic that was once inside me, and is in you, seeping from the foundation, deep into my bones. You felt the same as you entered the Temple of Mythal. I could see it. Even from a distance, you looked at peace.”

“What is this magic you and your mother say I have inside of me?”

“I can’t pretend to understand it as well as my mother, but I’ll explain it as well as I can. You have ancient elven magic inside of you. It is undiluted. Absolutely pure. The ancient elves knew magics I will likely never know. You are not a full mage because this power ran through the entire race of elves, not just mages. This allows you to perform _some_ magic, but not enough to be considered a true mage. Your magics are elemental––are they not? ––and likely focused around an element that represents yourself and your feelings, or, possibly, it could just be that you choose the best elemental magic for the situation. I don’t know. Ancient elves were also made immortal by their connection to the Fade, as the Veil created by Fen’Harel unwittingly led to the downfall and shorter lifespans of the elves, making them the ghosts of their former selves they are today. With the pure ancient elven connection to the Fade inside of you, you are, I believe, immortal. How you received this elven ability is uncertain to me, but I believe you obtained it from your mother. That would explain how you appear elven instead of human; your mother’s strengthened ancient elven seed was able to overcome your father’s human seed. This is also how you were born despite your parents both being Grey Wardens. Your hair is a whitish-blond because of the power inside. Your mother’s power was not as strong, so her hair did not turn that color. Again, I don’t know why. That is all I know.”

Briala stared in astonishment. “That,” she said after a moment, “is some excellent theory. _You_ came up with all this yourself?”

“Did you think I had time to confer about it with my mother?”

Briala thought back. “No.” She tried to think of another topic. “Will you ever want to be king?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You’re the illegitimate human son of King Alistair. You could be an heir.”

“You could be one too.”

She laughed. “I would be the _worst_ candidate for queen. I’m more my mother’s daughter. I don’t want to sit on a throne every day without a sword to put callouses on my hands. And I doubt any nation would cooperate with a half-elven leader.”

“Like I’ve said, all I want to be is a Grey Warden. I could care less about Ferelden. I wasn’t even raised there.”

“I understand.” She paused. “You know, we’ve been living only days’ journey apart for nearly our whole lives, and yet neither of us knew the other existed. How many unknown people are there out in the world? Animals. Monsters even.” She looked up at the stars through the smoke rising from the fire. There were hundreds, and she knew every constellation by heart. To her, each star was a light in the darkness provided to give those in Thedas hope.

“I suppose. But I think of it being better kept unknown. How many of those people, animals, monsters, would make the world worse in knowing they existed or were endangered by their discovery. Maybe there’s a reason why no one knows about them yet.” He followed her gaze to the stars he knew so little about. He understood some people made shapes and patterns from them, but he knew none. He thought it only looked like a black sheet covering the sun for half the day with a bunch of holes in it.

Briala half-yawned, “Maybe.” She rested her head on Kieran’s shoulder, her pointed ears pushing against the leather of his jerkin. Her eyes closed. She was asleep before Kieran could tell her to move to her side of the fire. Instead, he calmly watched the blaze and listened to the even breathing of the sister he never knew he had.


	20. Chapter 20

20

Beliefs

The sound of ringing metal awoke Briala. Her head snapped up to see Kieran lifting his sword. A great bear ambled through the clearing in which they were camped, though their camp was little more than a firepit. The bear nuzzled Briala’s satchel and used its enormous paws to uselessly fiddle with the tiny buckle on it. The bear then bent down its head and began to chew at the leather. Kieran took a slow step toward the creature with his sword ready. Briala gradually joined him, standing up, but instead of grabbing her sword, she grabbed his arm. He whispered to her without turning. “What are you doing?”

“In the few remaining texts we Dalish have, bears are sacred, as they are the only creatures to keep Dirthamen’s secrets. If you attack him, he will attack you. One of us will die, but whether it will be him or you, I do not know.”

“So you expect me to just let this bear eat what’s left of your supplies? There’s already barely enough to make it to the Auguste River. Even if we make it there with enough food, there’s no guarantee ships even sail from there.”

“We have no better options.”

Kieran lowered his sword. “Dirthamen. That is who your vallaslin are dedicated to, are they not?” He watched the bear finally tear through the bag and lift out the last of their bread and cheese. It slowly clawed away the cloth wrapped around each to keep them fresh.

“Yes.” Her gaze followed the bear as he––or as Briala now knew–– _she_ walked away into the forest, greeting two small, young cubs nearly hidden in the brush at the tree line. Briala’s lip curled into a gentle smile. Kieran lowered his sword before sliding it into its sheath. “We will find food,” she reassured him, “but we must not take what the forest does not give us.”

“What do you mean, ‘give us’?” he exploded. “That bear was _right there_! We could have food by now if you had let me––”

“––kill her?” She finished, becoming angry. “What would her cubs had done if they had no mother? Or what would I have done if I had to venture to Weisshaupt on my own because you were thick-headed enough to attack a mother bear and get mauled to death?”

He threw his hands up. “Then how am I supposed to get food if everything is sacred to you Dalish?” Her eyes narrowed angrily. “Oh, no!” he mocked. “I stepped on a blade of grass! What of its children! I deserve the penalty of death!”

“That,” she grated, “is not how the Dalish behave.”

“Yes. It. Is.” He pointed at her accusingly. “Dalish try to hold on to what little past they have left, which is pathetic, really.”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” Briala tried to calm herself, only making her angrier.

“Those _vallaslin_ on Dalish peoples’ faces? The ones you make sound _so_ extravagant. You worship a god who does nothing for you, one that supposedly blesses bears for keeping his secrets? Those vallaslin are _slave markings_. The Elvhen people would enslave even those of their own race, giving them those markings to show who their masters worshipped. Those gods the Dalish hold to their hearts so dearly are likely to destroy the world. That’s the flaw in Solas’s plan, and the Dalish have been worshipping those who would destroy the world.” Briala’s hands crept to her face as she traced the lines of her vallaslin. He walked to the satchel and fumbled through it for anything they could still use. His search being worthless, he furiously tossed the bag at a nearby tree.

“You’re a monster. You speak of my faith as if it is worthless. My people––”

“––your people, your faith, are worthless. I had an Old God inside of me. The elven gods are false gods. And the Maker probably isn’t real either. Or Andraste. Time has corrupted them, making them as gods in the eyes of the people of Thedas, but I have learned how easily time makes a simple name sacred. Who knows? Maybe one day the Inquisitor will be worshipped for closing the Breach. Even when she first received the mark, she was called the ‘Herald of Andraste.’”

“What do you know of faith?” Briala yelled, tears streaming down her cheeks. Everything she had ever known had collapsed around her within minutes. Everything was uncertain. Her entire faith, the gods, might all be a great lie.

“In Thedas, there is no hope, so people create their own. They create gods out of ordinary people.”

“I’m leaving!” She screamed, trying to prevent herself from sobbing.

Kieran shouted back, “Fine! Your love for nature will only make us become part of it––as food!” Briala stormed off, headed toward Weisshaupt.


	21. Chapter 21

21

Necessities

Kieran hid in a tree waiting for his trap to work. A nug sniffed at the carrot inside––the only bait he was able to find. The nug pulled its head away from the trap and instead began licking moss off a nearby rock. Kieran nearly wanted to jump atop the nug and catch it with his bare hands, but he knew nugs could be surprisingly ferocious when provoked. Instead, he waited another hour before a speckled black and white rabbit hopped near the trap. Kieran’s eyes widened in anticipation. His hand gripped the tree branch harder. The rabbit unhurriedly inched its way inside and nibbled at the carrot. The gate slid down on the wooden trap. Kieran clamored down the tree, gathered the trap, and began to prepare the rabbit for consumption. As he did so, his thoughts were trained on Briala. Faith was all the Dalish had. Humans had enslaved them and were continuing to do so to this day. Humans. He was a shem. At least Dalish stood up for their own kind. What had Kieran done? Denied her faith, calling it fake, and ignored the fact that he had none at all? He had insulted the one thing that gave the Dalish people a reason to keep living.

When the pieces of rabbit meat were dried, salted, and packed in a new bag he got from his home, he ran his fingers through his hair, knowing he had been wrong to say that to her. And he couldn’t let her travel through Orlais alone. His mother had told him about the evil of men in the world these days. Briala was not safe. He turned around and began to follow her.


	22. Chapter 22

22

Masquerade

Briala’s stomach growled so loudly she hoped no one had heard it. She had sneaked onboard a ship loaded with––she discovered––Orlesian masks. She had jumped into an empty crate, then felt the hundreds of golden, silver, jeweled, and laced masks fall on her. That hurt. A lot. Now she was stuck in the same sitting position under a pile of the masks. It was difficult to breathe, and it was completely dark. She was wishing she had thought of a better plan than this. How long would she be stuck like this?

She told herself, _It’s better than walking all the way to Weisshaupt_ , but she was changing her mind rather quickly.

The ship swayed and reminded her of the aravels––the land-ships as humans liked to call them––that the Dalish used. Aravels were pulled by halla, and magic was used to make them go faster over the terrain of the Dales. She enjoyed hanging off the side of the aravels as they bounced along the paths. When it was flat ground, the aravels would speed up dramatically. Though she was scolded every time, Briala always had her fun with the aravels.

Unfortunately, the ship didn’t possess the freedom the aravels did. Her legs were cramping, and she hoped her blood wouldn’t clot. Instead she closed her eyes and rested. Her first mistake.


	23. Chapter 23

23

Encounters

Briala was lifted and thrown out of the crate, instantly making her wake as she slammed into a wall. Her back screamed with pain, and she was unable to move her limbs. Instead, she lifted her eyes. A man with arms thicker than fifteen-year-old trees cracked his knuckles above her. He squatted in front of her. A small fireplace lit his face. He sported scars and stubble on his square chin. His ears were almost too big for him, and his bald head reflected the firelight.

“You think I’m okay with havin’ stowaways on my ship?” His accent was rough and unrecognizable to her. “I’ve gotta make a livin’. Got no room fer knife-ear stowaways.” He grabbed her by the hair and lifted her a few inches off the ground. She bit back a scream and instead winced with tears coming to her eyes. She blinked them away. “Pay me, or I’ll kill ya. Simple as dat.” He dropped her and smiled, almost kindly. “Got it?” She nodded. Her fingers inched their way to a dagger on her hip. The man’s eyes followed her hand. He grabbed her arm again, tighter this time, and she winced again. “Don’t even try dat on me.” He released his grip, walked back toward the crate, and turned toward her. “You will be my indentured servant for three months to pay off what you owe me.”

She stood up. “I will not work for you. I have a duty to Thedas, and time is precious.”

He humored her. “And what duty would dat be?

“Saving the world. Solas is––”

“Everyone knows about dis Solas. Nothin’ has happened for the past three years. Why would anything change now? You are probably just a little girl trying to make yourself a hero like the Inquisitor and da Hero herself.”

She pulled out her blade before he could rush toward her. “I am the _daughter_ of the Hero of Ferelden, and I will live up to my name and bring my clan the honor it deserves.”

“Ah.” He smiled. “A Dalish. Da Dalish are fiery. You will make an interestin’ servant.”

She swung the sword, forcing him to jump backwards into the side of the crate. She stepped toward him slowly, brandishing her dagger. He gulped nervously. The point of her sword poked at the skin of his neck when she stopped advancing. “Don’t ever say that again. I do not have any payment at the moment, but once this is all resolved, if it ever is, I will return here and either pay you or work off my debt.” The man nodded slightly. He watched her, stunned, at how a girl that young could be as ferocious as the Hero.

Briala stepped outside the man’s abode without further incident and nearly gagged on the smell. She was on the outskirts of the Orlesian Empire, and it showed. Nearby was an elven alienage where the city elves dwelt. The docks were adjacent to the man’s house. She was at the strait which connected the Waking Sea and Lake Celestine. It would still be a long journey to Weisshaupt even if she experienced no delays, which was unlikely.

She headed north, crossing through the streets but didn’t make it far before someone called to her. She turned to her right where an elven woman begged for food.

“Please, anything you can spare is appreciated.”

Briala stopped and turned to the elf. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything.”

“Please! My son and I are starving! I beg you!” The woman grabbed Briala’s boot as tears poured from her eyes. “You are an elf too. I see the worth of your clothing. You must have something!” she wailed.

“Like I said, I don’t have anything. I wish I could help.” It took effort to keep her voice level. She had never seen such destitution. She had heard it was bad to be an elf in Orlais, but . . .

She considered her belongings but knew she needed everything. Except her necklace. Her mother’s ironbark necklace. On which were the elven runes that depicted her mother’s name. Briala’s fingers fluttered as she lifted the chain over her head and ran her fingertips over the runes. She knelt down and gingerly handed it to the woman, knowing it was only a possession. That she would see her mother again. She hoped.

The woman’s eyes widened. “This-this is valuable!”

“Yes, it is,” Briala replied softly, still watching the necklace. It was the only physical reminder she had of her clan. “It is ironbark. I’m sure you can sell it for a good price.”

“Thank you for your kindness, stranger.” The woman took Briala’s hands and kissed them. “Thank you,” she repeated, more tears coming to her eyes.

“Use it wisely,” Briala reminded her.

“I will. Yes, I will. Oh, thank you,” she repeated for the third time as she wrapped her arms around Briala. She finally let go after a minute, and Briala bid her farewell. The woman walked off toward the alienage, stuffing the amulet down her dress to avoid it being seen and stolen. Briala embarked on her mission, trying not to think about the bare space on her chest where the necklace had sat for many years.


	24. Chapter 24

24

Ties

Briala was slammed into a wall . . . again, this time by bandits. Or thugs. Or robbers. All the same. She was going to stop them anyway. A long-haired blond man held a knife to her throat.

 _Wow_ , she thought, _for once there is an_ indecent blond man _in Thedas_.

He seemed nervous. He looked over his shoulder every few seconds, even as he talked and demanded she hand over her weapons.

“You’d think by now people would stop messing with me,” Briala told him. “I have defeated three armed guards in combat before. What makes you think _you’ll_ have a chance?”

“B-because . . .” he looked over his shoulder again.

“What are you so afraid of? That a dragon will come into this alleyway and eat you? There are no guards in this part of the city. Go ahead and try to rob me already. You’re delaying me.” Her hand was already gripped around a hidden dagger near her hip.

He looked back and released her. “I-I can’t do this. Not to another Dalish.”

“You’re not a city elf?” Her eyebrows raised.

“No. I’m posing as one though. For Fen’Harel.” She immediately lifted her dagger to his throat. “P-please don’t kill me! I’ve only been working as a spy. I’ve never killed anyone. But now we’ve been ordered to hunt down a Dalish elf with white-blond hair and bring you to him alive.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know!” The man cried. “His servants get dreams of a wolf, and the dreams make us crave to do what he desires or go where he wants us. I haven’t had any dreams since a few nights ago when he wanted us to capture you.” He sobbed. “I only wanted to become immortal, like the old elves. I don’t want to kill anybody.” He dropped his weapon.

“You’re pathetic. Tell me, do you have any information of the whereabouts of the Inquisitor, a woman named Morrigan, or the Hero of Ferelden?”

“Y-yes.” The man looked up. “He wants the Hero of Ferelden captured, but I heard nothing of the Inquisitor or this Morrigan. The Hero of Ferelden is believed to be at Weisshaupt Fortress.”

“Maybe you’ve seen Morrigan in these dreams of yours. She has black hair, improper wear, and yellow eyes.”

“Oh! Yes, I’ve seen her in the dreams he sends. He wants her dead too.”

“Is there anyone else he wants dead?”

He thought for a moment. “Yes, but I should clarify he only wants these people dead because they would not allow themselves to be captured or dissuaded from stopping him. He doesn’t seem to like it when we have to kill people.”

“Go on.”

“Right. He wants this other person dead. She’s pretty recognizable. She has this red stripe across her nose.” He brought his fingers up and made the motion. “She has fairly short black hair and expensive armor with a pointed pauldron on her right shoulder.”

“Thank you for the information,” she paused, listening for his name.

“M-M-Marcel.”

“Marcel, don’t help Solas anymore.” He nodded nervously. “Farewell.”


	25. Chapter 25

25

Slumber

Briala’s stomach sounded like thunder, and she brought her hands to it. It had been days since she had last eaten, and she was feeling dreadfully weak. She moved to the wall of a decrepit building and leaned on it, slowing sliding down the side. Trying to ignore the dancing spots, she closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her abdomen. Shortly after, her head hung, and she fell asleep. Her second mistake.


	26. Chapter 26

26

Snares

Her knees scraped along the ground, her hair falling in front of her face, much like in the great hall of Skyhold when she was thought to be working for Solas. She awoke to being dragged by hands under her arms. The floor beneath her was flawless checkered marble. She lifted her head. Blue silk draperies trimmed with golden thread were drawn over the spotless windows. Through the thin slits of space in the curtains, only black with a few scattered stars were visible. How long had she slept? A day? Two days? She _had_ been exhausted.

Flames danced in ornamented sconces resting on the floor. She lifted her head even more to see a ceiling painted with frescos of people Briala supposed were famous Orlesians. The only sound echoing around the empty halls was the clopping of the shoes of the people dragging her. As she did not have the strength to fend off two people, she anxiously waited to see what would become of her.

The hall, as it turned out, led to an enormous dining room. The table was large enough to sit at least twenty people.

The surface of the table was completely covered by food––a large roasted nug, grapes, apples, oranges, grapefruit, blood sausage, rabbits, chickens, rams, vintage wine, and even, to Briala’s horror, a halla, yet there was only one person at the table. A man at the far end of the table ripped the meat off a chicken leg with his teeth before looking up at his visitors. His face was round, pudgy, and looked like it had been flattened by a dragon’s arse. His thin mustache curled up at the ends whimsically. His hair spilt in the middle and was greased down on either side of his head, continuing the dragon’s bane effect. Three other chins fell beneath the one with bone under his face, and all dripped with grease from his food. His torso bulged out like the back half of a giant cave spider and was clothed with elaborate silks and fabrics. The faint glow from sconces accentuated his bulges while deepening the shadows that were his eyes. He sucked the remaining grease off his thick, stubby fingers one by one, then asked in a deep voice, “Who’s dis?” He reached for a bottle of vintage wine and motioned for a servant to retrieve it for him when his bulk preventing him from leaning forward.

One of the people carrying Briala spoke, and she learned it was a man. “De Monsieur, we found one of your servants nearby trying to escape. She didn’t make it far; she fell asleep one city block away from here. I don’t know where she got this armor, though. She likely stole it.”

The weighty man ordered the servant to uncork the wine, and then he drank it directly form the bottle. Briala noticed the servant brush her hair behind her ear––her pointed ear. The servant was an elf. Briala watched another servant gathering dirty dishes from the table. Her hair was pulled back enough for Briala to see that she too was an elf. She watched another female elf servant walk in with a bowl of pomegranates in her hands. All wore empty expressions, and all had a sort of sun-shaped mark on their foreheads. They were all Tranquil, devoid of emotion, susceptible to persuasion. Usually it was the Circle that created Tranquils from people who were once mages. How had this Orlesian gotten this many former mages with the Rite of Tranquility?

“She doesn’t look Tranquil,” the plump man said after chugging half the wine in the bottle. Briala noticed she had been staring at the man in pure anger. She forced her face to relax into a carefree expression, though she doubted it would help now. An armored hand brushed up her hair to allow his lord to see if she had the Rite of Tranquility. “Is she actually one of my servants?”

“I don’t know,” one of the men who had carried her in replied.

“Ah, oh well.” He stuffed a bunch of grapes in his mouth and spoke through them. “Id dusn ma-er anyway. Pud er wid da res.” He waved the men away, and they hesitated for a moment, unsure exactly of what he had said. “Go!” He hardly managed to get the word out with the grapes still stuffing his mouth. They led her out the doors from which they came into the dining hall and went down many more hallways before she was led to the servants’ quarters. They threw her to the floor, and the door slammed behind her. She lay on the ground weakly and wondered what was going on.

“You are new here, are you not?” A female voice came from behind her. Briala stood up on her wobbly legs and turned around. The woman from whom the voice came was another elf. Her blackish-brown hair fell to the bottom part of her ears in a jaggedly cut line. Her lips were chapped, and her hair greasy. Her vallaslin were more elaborate than Briala’s and looked like wild vines growing across her forehead. Her outfit was the same as the other servants but had a few blood stains on it. Her tan skin was bruised and bloodied. Her accent hinted at being a Dalish living in the wilds of Nevarra. She stood up and walked to Briala holding out her hand. “Merrinne Alerion. And you?”

“Doesn’t matter anymore,” she replied while shaking her hand. “Where are we? What is going on?”

“‘Lord’ Xavier’s estate. Right now, nothing unusual is happening except you being here. He’s eating. His Tranquil slaves are working. And I am here because I disobeyed him. His chevaliers taught me a few lessons on the way back to the servants’ quarters.”

“His chevaliers seemed to believe I was a servant of his. Might I ask why?”

“You are an elf. It is as simple as that. Nobles do not care for the welfare of the elves, only their servitude. I myself left Nevarra to visit the Sabrae clan for a time to visit my cousin Merrill. My brother, Liahris, mysteriously left the clan three years ago, so she was all I had left. The other clans were also overdue for the ten year meeting, and my Keeper wanted me to look into the mystery during my travels.”

“The Arlathavhen,” Briala whispered. She had forgotten. It was supposed to have happened two months ago.

“My inquiry into their absence led me into the Orlesian Empire where I tarried for too long. I discovered all too late that many clans had abandoned the decennial exchanging of new artifacts and histories because they had decided to go for the histories themselves. The Dalish are flocking to Fen’Harel to restore our people. Unfortunately, one of Xavier’s chevaliers kidnapped me and made me a servant. Every time I try to escape,” she held up her servant garments to show the bloodstains in greater detail, “I fail.” Merrinne paused. “You haven’t seen him, have you––my brother? He has a scar on his face.” She brought a hand up to her own cheek. “A burn in the shape of a hand.”

Briala had a sharp intake of breath. Her skin paled, though Merrinne couldn’t distinguish her change in skin tone in the semi-dark room. How was this even possible? Out of all the people in the world . . .

“N-no.” Briala’s heart fell into her stomach. “I haven’t seen him,” she managed to choke out. Briala had, in a way, killed Merrinne’s brother at Skyhold in the kitchens. He was working for Fen’Harel and was desperate enough to commit suicide.

Merrinne looked down. “I understand. I doubted you had seen him. I just thought it was worth asking.” She was soundless for a moment before looking up. “Maybe together we can escape.”

Briala gestured to where her sword and daggers were normally stored on her person. “They took my weapons, and I need them for my journey. I’ll need those before leaving the estate.”

“Are you good with weapons?”

“As well as Lord Xavier appears to be with eating.”

This released a laugh from Merrinne. “Yes. Well, then, I will see what we can do about your weapons. They are likely in Xavier’s vault in the west wing. I know where it is. I once convinced one of the Tranquil slaves to tell me its location for ‘convenience purposes.’”

“I have not met many Tranquils, but I read while at Skyhold that they have free will. Why would these Tranquils allow themselves to be subjected to slavery?”

“You see, even though Tranquils possess free will, they can be easily swayed into doing something if they are led to believe it is the correct course of action. Xavier convinced them to work for him, as Tranquil elves have little place in Orlesian society except as servants. Once the templar and mage war broke out, Tranquil had nowhere to go. They are unwelcome in most places, so they accepted refuge wherever they could find it. Here, they could––I’m summarizing his words here––find safe refuge, food, and water. They still believe they have everything they need, even though Xavier forbids his servants from eating from his scraps and only permits them to eat from the expired food.”

“That’s horrible.”

“You didn’t need to say that. It’s obvious.”

“Right.”

“Now,” Merrinne spoke slowly, “we need to leave these quarters and reach the vault without being seen by Xavier’s chevaliers.” Briala studied the room. “I’ve checked dozens of times.” She had noticed Briala trying to use something from the room to aid in their escape. “The chevaliers are sure to search for weapons in here every time a servant comes in or out, as Xavier can’t exactly defend himself. I need you and your weapons. That’s all we’ve got.”

“I understand, but the chevaliers are patrolling. Without their schedule we can’t––”

“I already have it.”

“Let me guess. You wrenched that out of a Tranquil servant too?” Briala followed Merrinne to the door and peeked out as she opened it.

Merrinne whispered, “Yes.” She motioned to follow her. Briala trailed her through the labyrinth of hallways, occasionally passing a chevalier. Briala had to trust Merrinne and that her source was trustworthy, or there might be no future possibility for escape.

Merrinne pushed Briala behind a giant potted plant at one point when a chevalier was running down the hallway. As it turned out, he seemed to be in dire need of a chamber pot; he was desperately trying to undo the small buckles of his fauld armor while his gauntlets were positioned under his arms. The joints of the gauntlets swayed as he ran as if they were waving goodbye to the future escapees. Briala sighed deeply after the man left, but Merrinne held a finger up to Briala’s lips. They waited for another three minutes before starting off again. During that time the Neverran elf seemed to be doing calculations on her fingers.

They rushed down the hallways and finally met the vault. It was brandished with a golden door and spindle. The spindle itself had five handles and was adorned with lines of diamonds on each. Merrinne motioned to hurry; they could already hear footsteps coming down the corridor adjacent to the vault. Both worked furiously to turn the spindle, and the vault door was finally able to be pulled open by the time the chevalier’s steps indicated he was about to turn the corner. Merrinne shoved Briala into the vault and slammed the door shut with a resounding _thump_. Briala forced herself to not draw attention to her presence by pounding on the door and instead listened to the sounds of a struggle outside. Nearly ten seconds later she heard the sound of metal clatter on the floor. Her heartbeat seemed to echo in her ears.

_Boom. Boom._

_Boom. Boom._

_Boom. Boom._

Silence outside.

Her heart stopped for a moment when she realized it was soundless outside. She pressed her pointed ear to the cold metal door. Her voice was raspy at first from nervousness. “M-Merrinne?”

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

“Merrinne?” she asked louder.

_Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom._

_Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom._

_Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom._

“Merrinne!” She slammed her hands on the door. The darkness reminded her too much of death. Her own death. And the feeling she was currently completely alone. She found herself with tears streaming down her cheeks and labored breathing. The vault had no vent. There was not enough air.

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

Her hands were beginning to hurt from the pounding. The air inside the vault was dissipating rapidly now. She gasped for breath. Nothing satisfied the ache in her lungs.

_Boom. Boom._

_Boom. Boom._

_Boom. Boom._

“Merrinne.” She slid down the side of the door with her palms still extended. There was no air now. Her eyes closed. Soft leaves covered her ears. No. Her mother’s calloused hands. Everything would be all right . . .

She rested her head against the door.

_Boom._

_Boom._

_Boom._

Her heartbeat faltered.

_Boom._

_Boom._

_Boom._


	27. Chapter 27

27

Echo

Merrinne shoved Briala into the vault and slammed the door. A second later the chevalier turned the corner, saw Merrinne, and drew his steel. He performed a forward thrust while Merrinne, without a weapon, ducked beneath the blade and attacked him. First, she elbowed him in the ribs. Then, she brought her fist down into a sort of sideways punch into his groin. She made sure he could feel it through his fauld. He hunched over in pain, and she then brought up her elbow into his chin, throwing off his helm and ignoring its clattering on the ground. His head and neck were painfully thrown backwards. The pain forced him to stagger back, and Merrinne took the opportunity to tackle him. She stuck him in the nose. Once. Twice. Thrice was enough. Blood trickled down over his lips when he tried to lift his head. Instead he lifted his sword inconspicuously and suddenly shoved it forward. It slid through Merrinne’s chest and emerged bloodied on the other side. Merrinne looked down with a vague sense of shock and redirected her attention to the chevalier who grinned maliciously. She painfully slid down the sword a few inches, struggling to breath, and punched him in the nose, this time with her compacted fury––the wrath of the Dalish, the pain of losing her brother to unknown forces, and her belief the elves and the Elvhen culture were becoming extinct. The single punch knocked him out . . . and practically disintegrated his nose. Without him holding the sword skewering her, she fell sideways and breathed in short gasps. If she removed the sword, she would bleed out almost instantly. And Briala was still in the vault. She blearily forced her eyes to stay open. She pulled herself toward the vault door, still on her side, and reached up to turn the spindle. As she pulled, she felt the blade dig into the edges of the injured muscle.

The door opened slowly. The pain increased with her efforts. She pulled herself around and through the opening where she noticed Briala had fallen out. It seemed as though Briala had been leaning against the door and fell when it opened. Merrinne’s heart jumped when she noticed she did not see Briala breathing. She held her fingers to Briala’s temple to feel for a heartbeat.

Nothing. Briala’s heart was as lifeless as she herself would be soon. Blood from Merrinne dripped on Briala as she tried to resuscitate her. Her own chest hurt extraordinarily during the life-saving procedure. Occasionally she would stop to feel for a pulse.

“Come on, Briala,” she mumbled. Her vision was beginning to seem as though she had looked at the sun for too long. “Come on.”


	28. Chapter 28

28

Fade

Briala was on the cliff again. Her mother walked along the cliffside. Someone seemed to be speaking to her as if from a great distance. Briala began to pull herself up when she noticed someone else walking beside her mother. Had he been there before? Suddenly he grabbed her mother’s arm. Alyne turned in a fury and suddenly blinked away. Briala, meanwhile, was still hanging off the edge, though it took no strength to dangle by one arm. “Mother!” Her grip suddenly seemed looser. Before she fell, she pulled herself up with some effort. Then there she was in the vault. Merrinne knelt over her with an ashen face. “Merrinne?” she asked wearily. She took a second deep breath. Merrinne sighed in relief and fell over. A sword hilt slightly dug into Briala’s hip, and she now noticed it was jutting out from Merrinne’s chest. Briala snapped to be fully alert. She kneeled over the other elf, her hands wavering over the wound. “Is there any way I can help?”

“No,” Merrinne mumbled. “Just . . . es-cape. _Ar l-lasa mala r-revas_.” Her breath shuddered for a moment. “T-his w-ill take a-while. P-ull out t-the swor-d.” Her limp arms attempted to reach for the hilt but were unable to be lifted. Briala watched her struggle, then hastily grasped the hilt and pulled. Blood sprayed, and Merrinne looked even more hurt for a few seconds before her head fell, her eyes emptily staring at the elaborate ceiling. A red puddle gathered around her corpse. Briala stepped back. Briala closed Merrinne’s eyes before saying a quick prayer in Elvish. “Ir abelas, Merrinne Alerion.” Grabbing her sword and daggers from the stash, she left the vault without turning back.

. . .

Briala restocked her supplies before leaving. Every chevalier she had encountered she had defeated. Xavier was easy enough to work around; once she had scared him enough, he passed out from fear. She decided to take only what she needed. She noticed the Tranquils watching her from behind the doorway to the kitchen. Slinging the bag over her shoulder, Briala stepped toward them.

“You don’t have to stay,” she told them.

They let a blond-haired elf speak for them. “This is our place. We have no other.”

The monotonous voice unnerved her, but she remained calm. “Are you sure? This is your best chance to leave.” Her hand swept to indicate the unconscious chevaliers.

“Yes.” The elf did not need to look at her companions to know they believed the same.

Briala stepped forward and set a hand on the lead elf’s shoulder. “Goodbye, my people. May you be in peace.”

“And may you.” The other elf bowed her head. Briala turned and left with a feeling of sorrow for those who did not want to be saved.


	29. Chapter 29

29

Paths

Briala paused on the path. Before her were two choices: she could go left––northwest––following the Nahashin Marshes and its wild terrain, or she could go right––northeast, following the road. The first path could be faster, cutting about a day off her journey, yet it was untamed land and might lead her to Andoral’s Reach, a refuge for those who broke the law or the ways of the Chantry. That path would likely also lead to Kal-Sharok, an old dwarven home that used to be the capital of the dwarves until Orzammar took its place. Those who lived there were said to have done something appalling to the darkspawn, and not many truly knew what the current state of the city was. It had only recently been rediscovered, as it was thought to have been overtaken by the darkspawn centuries ago. Residents of Perendale, a Neverran place of power, could also prove to be a problem in the area. One book at Skyhold had mentioned ferocious goats and wyverns near Perendale. Dragons once lived there, but dragon-hunting families were so popular in Nevarra they were nearly extinct last she heard.

The path to the right would bring her to the city of Val Royeaux where she could possibly convince a wealthy merchant to spare some food or coin. She could stock up on supplies before beginning the four days’ journey through the Silent Plains, then, finally, Weisshaupt. However, she might encounter trouble with the lords and ladies of Val Royeaux as she did with Xavier, and the Silent Plains were said to be unforgiving with their razor winds and dramatic temperatures. She thought of the Alerion Dalish clan she could encounter on the path to the right and hesitated. Merrinne. She closed her eyes before tears could gather in them. Right now, Merrinne was in the death crevasse. She remembered the pool of blood. Her paling skin in contrast with her dark hair. Her glazed eyes. Her––

 _Stop. There’s nothing I can do about that now,_ she told herself.

Still, she turned to the right before she drew her sword, turned around, and pointed it at the man, still about thirty yards away, who had been following her for the past day, yet she had not known who it was until now.

“Kieran!” She sheathed the sword, ran toward him, and leaped forward to hug him. She backed away, still holding his shoulders. “This is wide open land.” She gestured to the tree-barren territory. “Did you really expect me to not notice you?”

He smiled. “No. In fact, I was hoping you would notice me for the last day. I didn’t want to be the first to speak.” He looked down and nervously scratched his head. “I . . . apologize for what I said at camp. Criticizing your faith, I-I went too far.”

She smiled softly. “It’s all right. You came back. You didn’t have to, but you did.” It comforted her that he cared enough to travel halfway across Orlais to be with her. It was only a few months ago that she had thought no one in all of Thedas cared about her.

“So, which adults are we saving this time?” he smirked.

“The Hero of Ferelden and the Witch of the Wilds. After this, _we_ should be famous.” They walked toward the right path, both kicking up dust on the timeworn road.

“You don’t want to take the wild route?” he asked jokingly as they turned right.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure we’ll find enough fun along this route. We’ll be traveling into the southwestern reaches of the Tevinter Imperium.”

“I . . . I did some hunting after our argument. Figured we would need some food.”

“What kind?”

“Rabbit,” he answered sheepishly.

“Rabbits are fine. As long as it wasn’t a halla. Or a bear. Or a baby animal.”

He smiled. “It’s nice to not be arguing anymore.”

“Yes, it is.” Silence ensued before she spoke again. Her elven ears heard it before Kieran did. “Are those hoofbeats?”

“I don’t hear anything.”

She knelt to the dirt road and pressed her fingers against it, closing her eyes. Her elven connection to the land allowed her to feel what was coming. “Three horses coming quickly.” She paused to feel again. “They’re approaching us.”

“Your elven power almost seems to be getting stronger.”

“Maybe,” she shrugged, “but I have already known how to do this.”

“Why didn’t you use it before?” he inquired, astounded.

“I didn’t need to. Also, I can feel so many things when I do it, almost too much, and it gives me a headache.”

“Oh, poor you.” He grabbed her arm and led her to the side of the road. With nowhere to hide, the least they could do was not get run over.

The Orlesian coursers quickly came into view, with each of the three horses bearing a chevalier of the Orlesian army. Two of them were chasing the chevalier at the point. One of the pursuers leaped from his horse and tackled the lead chevalier on his mount. They both tumbled off. The victim remained still for a moment longer than the attacker, as the victim had landed with the attacker on top of him.

“You are too cowardly to duel?” The attacker mocked in an Orlesian accent while pushing himself to a stand.

“No,” the victim replied. His golden mask, typical in Orlesian fashion, made his voice come out muffled and strange, sounding almost feminine, though it was obviously Ferelden. “I’m just not idiotic enough to die that way.” The victim then turned and ran for it, forgetting there was still another chevalier on horseback. The victim turned around to watch the first attacker, then ran headfirst into the horse’s rear end which had moved in front of him. He collapsed on his back and lifted his visor, his voice now coming out clearly. “Headfirst into a horse’s arse,” the victim said. Briala and Kieran could now tell it was a female. “So, this is how I die. Even after saving Kirkwall, I’m _still_ hated by all.” A red mark streaked across her nose and cheeks, and eerily looked like a purposeful design made by swiping blood across her face with her fingers. The chevalier not riding his horse pinned the woman to the ground with his hands.

“All right,” he said menacingly, “why did you infiltrate the chevalier order?”

“I defeated the Arishok in Hightown. What makes you think you stand a chance?”

“Answer me!” He lifted her slightly before slamming her into the dirt, hardly causing any damage.

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m listening.”

She spat, “Maybe you should read the biography about it by Varric Tethras. He’s a great writer.”

The mounted chevalier lifted his sword from his sheath threateningly.

The woman looked at both of them and seemed to be doing calculations. Then she spoke. “I was trying to get close enough to Empress Celene to meet her magical advisor. It seems I’ve tried a bit too late.”

Kieran’s eyes widened in surprise.

The attacker inquired, “Why were you trying to make contact with her?”

“I need to know the location of the Hero of Ferelden.” She laughed manically. “Magic is stirring. It’s coming for her!” She widened her eyes and thrashed in the man’s hands. “The world is ending! It will burn with fire! Burn! _Burn_! You will all burn! Your flesh will drip from your bones! Burn! I tell you! Burn! Wooo!”

“You’re a lunatic.” The mounted chevalier spoke for the first time. His voice, filled with authority and exasperation, made the woman calm.

She stopped thrashing and now spoke coolly. “I am _not_. I tried to contact the Inquisitor three months ago to inquire about the Hero’s location, but I did not receive an answer. So, I took the detour and came here myself to ask the Hero’s good ole friend Morrigan to tell me where the Hero herself was. But, like I’ve already told you, she seems to have disappeared.”

“Then you seem to have come here in vain,” the chevalier from the mount spoke again. He dismounted and unsheathed his rapier, throwing it next to the woman with perfect accuracy. “Pierre,” the chevalier turned to his comrade, “duel.”

“But––”

“You wished she would do so. Now she will. Duel.”

The attacker sulkily pulled out his rapier and performed an advance-lunge without hesitation. The woman instinctively leaped out of the way. A smirk shown on her face. She dropped her rapier and lunged at the attacker, tackling him to the ground. The stoic chevalier retained his demeaner even while his companion was being beaten by a Ferelden.

The woman punched the attacker in the face. One. Two. Three. Four times. Both his nose and her fist shone with blood. “Don’t mess with a Hawke,” she grunted before punching him once more, making him unconscious. Hawke wiped off her hands with an expensive silk fabric hanging from the attacker’s belt and backed away. She turned around and remarked to the remaining chevalier, “Happy now?” She spat on the ground next to the attacker and then paused. “Aren’t you going to arrest me?”

“No,” the chevalier answered without change in expression. “As long as your intentions do not threaten Orlais, I don’t care.” He glanced at his unconscious companion with something Briala thought––despite his mask––was distaste. “He needed to be taught a lesson.” Hawke shrugged in supposed agreement and mounted her horse before she noticed Briala and Kieran staring at her with wonder in their eyes.

“How long have you kids been standing there?” Hawke asked, bewildered.

“Longer than you’ve been here,” Kieran answered, the astonishment fading.

“Get lost, kids. This road isn’t safe these days. Too many elves.”

“I’m an elf.” Hawke’s attention turned to Briala.

“Oh. Sorry ‘bout that. There’s just too much propaganda against elves these days.” She chuckled. “An elf and a human traveling together. How strange.”

“We’re siblings.”

“That’s even stranger.”

“Get used to it. You’ll be traveling with us.” Briala crossed her arms.

Hawke scoffed. “And why would I travel with two runaways?”

Kieran spoke this time. “Because you need us. We know where the Hero and the magical advisor are.”

That had captured Hawke’s interest. “Go on.”

“Come with us, and you’ll learn,” Kieran continued.

“Oh,” Hawke mocked, “you need someone a bit taller than you to pick the pomegranates off the topmost branches? Children aren’t _packaged_ for travel. Just tell me now, and I _might_ give you some coin.”

“No.” This time Kieran crossed his arms.

“How can I even trust you?”

Briala let her arms drop to her sides as she stepped forward. “I am the daughter of the Hero of Ferelden.” She pulled back her hair to reveal her semi-pointed ears, at which Hawke marveled. “His mother,” she gestured to Kieran, “is the magical advisor, and both are likely in the same place. If you don’t come with us, you will never know where either is.”

Hawke was silent in consideration. “Fine,” she said begrudgingly. “Let’s go. Wait, in what direction are we headed?”

“This will go much better if you are quiet.” Briala said while beginning to walk to the right path.

Hawke grunted.

Kieran chuckled. “Much better.”


	30. Chapter 30

30

Connections

“Are we there yet?”

Briala turned her head slightly to Hawke walking behind her and continued to cover her eyes with her hand. The Imperial Highway ran through the Silent Plains before turning west toward Weisshaupt, though the road was now little more than dirt packed down more than the surrounding dust and sand. Occasionally a deer or wolf pack could be seen in a small cluster of trees in the distance. Dust blew up from the barren wasteland into their faces and was wedged in every crack in their clothes. This was considered calm weather for the Silent Plains. Briala worried the worst weather would be much more treacherous than the blizzard they encountered in the Frostback mountain range near Skyhold. The sand was rumored to cut like daggers in fierce storms in the Silent Plains. “Be quiet. You sound like a young child.”

“I have better things to do with my life than traverse Thedas with an elf and a teenage human. You can at least tell me what direction we’re headed in. My husband is waiting for me.”

“We are half-way to our destination,” Kieran filled in, tired of their arguing. “Right now we are going north through the Silent Plains.”

“Kieran!” Briala snapped.

“Does it really matter if she knows or not? It’s not like she’s going to run off and tell someone we’re kidnapping her. She needs us.”

“Wait. Did you say ‘husband’?” Briala stopped walking and watched Hawke smirk at her question.

“I can’t talk about him,” she spoke amusedly. “If I did, I’d get the headman’s axe.”

Kieran snickered, at which Hawke exclaimed, “What?”

“I can’t believe you found someone who could put up with you,” he replied.

“Oh, you little–– _Deep breaths._ Let’s just say my husband started a war. Clue number one: part of his name is a mountain range. Clue number two––”

“Anders!” Kieran called out. “It’s Anders, isn’t it? Like the Anderfel mountains. Who else would be crazy enough to marry you?”

“Anders?” Briala questioned. She had learned much of the current times during her stay at Skyhold, but her naivety persisted after living a life of seclusion among the Dalish.

Hawke began with bedazzlement in her eyes, “He’s a Grey Warden––”

“––who blew up the Kirkwall chantry and started the mage-templar war.” Kieran watched Hawke for a contradiction, but she nodded in mournful acquiescence.

“You married the man who blew up the chantry in Kirkwall _and_ started the mage-templar war?” Briala recited unbelievingly.

“He’s hot.” Hawke shrugged. “He rocks the fluffy pauldron thing I heard Commander Cullen of the Inquisition has got down. He’s a medic. Plus, he loves cats. Have you ever found a hot man who loves cats? Oh! _And_ he worked with the Hero of Ferelden for a bit.” She grinned at Briala.

Becoming the trailblazer once more, Briala sped up, shaking her head in irritation.

Hawke tilted her head curiously like a bird and whispered to Kieran, “Do female elves also have the monthly red rose?”

He turned to her with a questioning expression and asked slowly, “What kind of question is that? I’m a man. You should be asking her.”

“I’m just curious! I mean, she’s always moody, isn’t she?”

Kieran’s gaze drifted to Briala who was now a good twenty feet ahead of them. Briala marched forward giving the impression she had forgotten the previous conversation entirely.

She seemed different than before she left the Dales. She was more . . . distant. His eyes softened as he watched her, knowing she had lost everyone she once loved and then regained everything in an overwhelming flood. He had always had his mother. They cared for one another, believing each would always be there. Losing his mother to the infinite pathways of the eluvian had been the first true loss of his life. Something had happened to Briala during her journey without him present, something that had shaken her on top of the loss of her people, her memories, and her life.

“So,” Kieran spoke again to Hawke, trying to distract himself from the imaginations his mind created of what had happened to Briala, “are you truly insane, or were you just pretending when those chevaliers captured you?”

“It was acting, kid. I find pretending to be insane helps to distract my enemies. Courtesy of living in the Free Marches for over ten years.”

“What is it like to live in the Free Marches?”

“Oh, you should ask Varric if you meet him sometime. Varric Tethras.”

Briala stopped walking then spun around. “You know Varric? Personally?”

Hawke waved it away. “Of course I do. Everyone in Kirkwall does now; he’s viscount! But yes. I know him personally.”

Briala slapped her forehead. “I should have known. You’re Marian Hawke, hero of the Free Marches.”

“I . . . thought I already introduced myself. Although, I’m used to people recognizing me on sight because of this.” She gestured to the line of red paint, or, more likely, blood on her nose.

“Yes, yes you did.” Her eyes remained closed and her hand pressed to her forehead.

Kieran walked up to her and set a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?” She closed her eyes and looked down. When her head came back up, Kieran saw that silent tears were streaming down her sand-encrusted cheeks.

“No,” she whispered. The words came slowly and were filled with pain. “I––No. It’s just . . . continue.”

“Please.” He touched her arm, but she pulled away. “Tell me. I’m here to listen.”

She sighed and pinned her lips for a moment. As she spoke, her gaze was directed toward the horizon blowing with sand. “When I crossed the strait, I came into the outskirts of the Orlesian Empire––the slums, but there was one estate in particular that housed one of the richest men in Orlais. I was careless. I fell asleep outside, and Lord Xavier’s chevaliers kidnapped me. In his estate I met another Dalish elf named Merrinne. And now she’s dead because she tried to help me escape.” She bit her lip and closed her eyes. “Why do I keep surviving? Every elf I know dies!” Stepping forward, Kieran wrapped her in an embrace. “I almost died! Merrinne _did_ die. What is _wrong_ with me?”

“It’s not wrong for you to survive,” he whispered in her ear.

“I killed her! I killed her brother! My clan is dead! I always survive! I just want . . . I want to . . .”

His hands remained on her shoulder when he pulled away. “Hey, it’s good you’re alive right now. We can’t bring back the dead, but we can bring back our parents if we hurry. He let go. She wrapped her arms around herself and sluggishly dragged her feet through the sand.

Hawke walked behind them and appeared to be confused by the situation, but she didn’t ask; she knew this was not the time for a joke. Still, she began tentatively, “Are we going to the Anderfels?”

“Yes,” Kieran answered. Briala didn’t bother to scold him this time.

Briala pulling out her sword ended the conversation. Hawke and Kieran also unsheathed their blades. Hawke then searched the area for the potential threat. “What did you see?”

“A wolf,” she replied apprehensively. “A large, black wolf. It had a great many red eyes.”

“Where did you see it?” Hawke asked.

“There.” Briala pointed at a spot some hundred yards away with no brush cover anywhere nearby for at least three hundred yards. Neither Hawke nor Kieran saw what she was pointing at.

“I don’t see anything.” Hawke spoke slowly. She sheathed her weapon, and Kieran shortly followed.

“There! It’s there again!”

Hawke said again, “I still don’t see anything.”

Briala spun around. “It’s right there! How can you not see it?” She turned to look back at the hideous wolf. She could see the red glint of its three pairs of eyes peering at her. Each reflected the bright gleam from the sun. A low growl echoed, slithering its way into Briala’s ears. Ghostly green and black coils wound their way around the beast.

“Briala, maybe we need to rest.” Kieran sounded concerned.

“I’m fine! I swear it’s there!” When she turned back to it, the wolf was gone. “Fen’Harel! He’s watching us!” Hawke began setting up camp. She didn’t care that they were camping on the road because they hadn’t seen anyone since they left Orlais. “We can’t camp here! He knows where we are!”

Hawke spoke while rolling out a blanket. “You need to rest.”

“No, I don’t! We need to hurry and get out of here!”

Hawke rose, walked to Briala, and stood inches in front of her. “You’ve lost someone, haven’t you?”

“Y-yes.”

“I have too. I watched my brother die from darkspawn, same with my father, and my mother was turned into some sort of death walker. I didn’t pause after their deaths. I just pushed through, and that caused me to make some of the stupidest decisions of my life. Here’s my advice: take a breath.”

Briala took a deep breath. “I know what I saw. That wolf was Fen’Harel.”

“Whatever you saw,” she conceded reluctantly, “is far away, and neither of us saw it. You can keep on the lookout while we finish setting up camp.” Walking away, she left Briala to contemplate the idea that she herself was going insane.


	31. Chapter 31

31

Horny

“Don’t tell me that’s a––”

“––dragon,” Kieran finished for her. Hawke cursed harshly. The dragon tossed its head while throwing a deer in the air. It breathed fire for a few seconds, roasting the poor creature, then gulped it down without chewing. Swiping its tail, it immobilized several other deer in the herd. The dragon then repeated the process with each, leaving the “herd” with only two deer––a buck and a doe. The travelers only slightly wondered if the dragon had left the two to replenish its food supply in time.

The dragon itself was streaked with orange and dark purple stripes from its head to its immensely thick tail. Black, enormous, qunari-like horns extended from the sides of its head. Its snout was rather compressed compared to some other dragons, but the teeth compensated for the size, as each of the razor-sharp serrated teeth appeared to be over a foot long. Whisker-like protrusions extended from the dragon’s snout and drooped almost to the joints of its front legs. Scales stronger than ironbark armor covered nearly every inch of its body. Its wings were unlike most dragons’. They bent like bat wings, acting as another set of limbs and were much larger than most dragon wings. Its eyes were stunning. They appeared to glow with fire, even from the distance at which the travelers were situated––nearly a hundred yards away. The eyes had to be enormous to see the irises from that distance.

Kieran was in awe. Briala’s fingers twitched while fingering the hilt of her sword. Hawke wanted to rush forward and attack it while they were under the cover of stealth. She grinned madly at the sight of it while watching the creature through the small patch of brush in which they were hiding.

“Well, a high dragon. The only way this could get worse is if it is an archdemon. So, what do we do?” Hawke asked them.

“Well,” Briala spoke slowly, “we are almost to Weisshaupt. That dragon looks to be the last obstacle. If you look there,” she pointed at spires in the distance, “there’s Weisshaupt. We could go around, but there are no more brush patches like this for leagues. We would have to backtrack about a half-day’s walk and circle around the dragon, unless we want to fight it.” Her hand dropped to her side. “We _could_ fight it.”

“You mean kill it.” Kieran corrected her. His expression almost seemed to indicate he was disappointed in her.

“Yes,” she replied quietly. “However,” she spoke louder, “I don’t think we could anyway. I mean, look at that.” She pointed at the simultaneous monstrosity and beauty. It burned the ground beneath it in a circle then lay down to rest. The creature could crispify them within seconds. Its muscles rippled beneath its scales magnificently.

Hawke shivered after involuntarily imagining immolation. “Do we have time to backtrack?”

“No, but we don’t have enough lives to attack the dragon either,” Briala sighed.

Hawke sighed too. “If only Anders could be here. Maybe he could summon an army of cats. Do you think nine lives would be enough to kill a high dragon?”

Kieran suddenly huffed, took off the sheath containing his sword, shoved it in Briala’s hands, and strode into the clearing. Briala moved to chase after him, but Hawke grabbed her and mouthed “no.” The dragon lifted its head gingerly at first, then sprang up and crouched in a defensive position as Kieran approached. A monstrous roar escaped its scaly lips which nearly blew Kieran backwards on his bottom. However, Kieran continued to approach holding his hands up as a sign of peace. A rumble echoed in the beast’s throat, and it stepped back. A nearly identical rumble ensued from Kieran’s throat. Then came a strange sort of singing. It was a combination of dragon and human vocals. The dragon song was strangely beautiful, yet haunting. He came up to the dragon while still singing and lifted his hand. The dragon lowered its snout to his comparatively infinitesimal hand and made a sound that resembled a purr. Its whiskers brushed the dirt.

“Maker’s breath,” Hawke whispered. “If the dragon bursts into song I’m going to vomit.”

Briala watched her brother with awe. He made a motion for them to follow him. Obeying him, they cautiously made their way across the space, thinking at any point the dragon would notice them and roast them as it had the deer. Briala occasionally looked back to watch her brother stroke the dragon’s snout and wondered how he would escape.


	32. Chapter 32

32

Tame

They made it across nearly a half-hour later with Kieran still petting the beast. When he saw they were at a safe distance away, he switched to a different song, one that sounded bittersweet, like a goodbye forever. It stuck Briala with how similar a mood it encouraged in her as with farewell tidings of the Dalish. He tentatively released his hand and walked away, never turning away from the dragon.

“Where did you learn that? The dragon-taming expo?” Hawke asked sarcastically when Kieran reached them.

“ _From whom_ is what you should be asking. I learned dragon taming from my mother. She can . . . transform into a dragon. She learned some of their language from her mother, too––a forgotten art.”

“That is _amazing_ ,” Hawke breathed. “First, I meet Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds, and learn she can _turn_ into a dragon. Then, I meet you and learn you can talk to dragons. Can _someone_ teach me? _Please_?”

“That’s why you didn’t want us to attack the dragon, isn’t it?” Briala asked Kieran, thereby continuing the habit of ignoring Hawke’s remarks.

He answered, “Yes, and I thought you cared more about the natural creatures of Thedas, with you being an elf. I was surprised and a bit disappointed when you spoke of attacking it.”

“Right, but Dalish don’t typically interact with dragons. I have only been taught to avoid them.”

“I suppose I understand. Come, let us continue.”

“ _Hello_?” Hawke voiced from behind them. “Lessons can commence _anytime_ now. I’m waiting. Kieran?”


	33. Chapter 33

33

Peak

“Weisshaupt Fortress,” Hawke announced.

“Shh.” Briala stepped before them. “Follow me,” she whispered.

Hawke huffed. “Well, where else would we go? The other direction?”

Briala gingerly stepped over the threshold into the fortress. There were no guards presently, as hardly anyone besides Grey Wardens made the journey to the fortress. It was cold, like at Skyhold, especially since it was nighttime and at a high elevation. Many of the stones were covered with snow. Large gatehouses stood on either side of the portcullis and waved decrypt flags bearing griffin heraldry of the Grey Warden order. Towers broke through the battlements periodically and bore similar flags. The stones of the fortress were ancient but intact. The intruders assumed magic to be the cause of the preservation. Before the travelers loomed the keep.

“I’ll search the fortress for Morrigan and my mother. You two set up camp in the courtyard.” Briala started off toward the keep.

“Excuse me?” Hawke grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. “ _No one_ is going in there alone.”

“And I won’t have only one of us in the courtyard completely exposed,” Briala shot back. I’m the only one here who expertly knows how to sneak around. It _has_ to be me.”

Kieran stepped forward. “Why does it _have_ to be you? All of us have someone here we’re looking for. I’m sure Hawke could hold her own if some Grey Wardens decided to ambush us.” He watched her avoid his gaze and close her eyes as if she was suppressing something. “This is about that elf, isn’t it? In Orlais at the estate. You don’t want the same to happen to one of us.”

“Enough.” She pulled out of Hawke’s grip and stamped away. “If I’m not back by sunrise, I’m dead. Don’t come looking for me.” They were left behind her to do as she commanded.

“If you’re the daughter of the Hero of Ferelden, probably the _most famous_ Grey Warden,” Hawke called after her only loud enough for Briala to hear, “then why are we sneaking around the Grey Warden stronghold?”

“I wish I knew,” Kieran muttered.


	34. Chapter 34

34

Reflection

The corridors were filled with dust, tables, and the occasional scenic painting. Every so often, a loud snore would emit from behind a thick wooden door, but she pressed on, undaunted.

She hesitated before breaking the lock with one of her daggers. Inside was an eluvian. Currently the surface simply resembled that of an old mirror; although, it did not reflect the room of Weisshaupt. Instead, it displayed the image of trees and grass and rocks, not unlike the Temple of Mythal. When she stepped in the room, the image of the forest transformed into a glowing blue rippling surface. A bald yet young-looking elf stepped out dragging two women behind him. One was Morrigan. The other was Alyne. Both were still but for their chests rising and falling every few heartbeats. He gently lowered them to the floor and looked up at Briala with a knowing smile. “ _Aneth ara_. I thought you would never come, da’len.”

Briala snapped, “You may not call me that, Fen’Harel.”

His gaze softened. His sorrowful expression contrasted with that of his sharp angular features: his long, elven ears and his pointed jaw. They combined into what was the best example of what elves once looked like. Ironically, it was he who made the elves fall from the status of being Thedas’s greatest above-ground race to wandering, sickly clans desperately clutching onto the few remnants of their past that remained. “Ir abelas. It is because of my mistakes that our people have deteriorated so. I deserved that.”

She spoke sarcastically, “What mistakes are those? The mistake in which you kidnapped my mother or betrayed the gods?”

“You should understand I did not kidnap your mother. In fact, she came to me. Nor did I betray your,” he grimaced, “‘gods.’”

Briala stepped back in shock. “What?”

“Your ‘gods’ were not, in fact, gods. They were slave-owning mages, but we lack the time for me to explain this question that would change your view of reality. So, I shall resort to your question of import. Yes, your mother was searching for a cure to the Calling when she heard of my plans. At first, she tried to stop me, but I persuaded her that I had a cure for the Calling, or I would have one if she helped me. You see, your mother has known where the cure was all along but refused to tell me its location, strange enough. She would rather die than not accompany me to its whereabouts to supervise me. I discovered she had been in hiding for so long in order to protect the cure from those who would abuse its power. She tried to kill me to ensure I would not get it.” He sadly looked down at Alyne’s motionless body. “I had to get the information out of her. Time is running short. Lanahris Lavellan is knocking on my door.”

Briala whipped around to snatch a glance at the doorway behind her, but there was no one there. She turned back to find Solas with a poignant smile touching his lips at her childishness.

“What did you do to my mother?” Briala nearly shouted. She restrained herself; she couldn’t have her friends hearing her and rushing to help her only to get themselves hurt, nor could she wake up every Grey Warden in the hall outside.

“Nothing she won’t recover from.” He looked up at Briala again. “Your mother did want to come back to you, but she couldn’t leave me, or reveal the position of the orb.”

“What orb?”

“There were two orbs,” he explained, “imbued with the power of the Fade, a link, a key––whatever you wish to call it. The first, the Inquisitor encountered, and she used its ability to open and close Fade rifts. That was the power called the Anchor. There was another orb that I searched for after the first was destroyed. The second your mother found during her wanderings about Thedas. She cut a piece off using an ironbark dagger, and gloves, mind you, or she would have also been infused with the Mark of the Rift, for she had heard of circumstances in which magical artifacts were mishandled, sometimes blowing apart the first to touch it in ages in treated improperly. She took it to an enchanter and crafter––I believe she told me his name was Sandal during the interrogations––who crafted a necklace from the piece of my ironbark orb. The necklace was engraved with her name and made to slowly imprint the magic from it into her. This would ensure her ability to keep the power safe; in order for one to use the complete power of the orb, he, or she, would have to search all of Thedas for the orb, her, and . . . her daughter. She wore it for a long time, then handed it down to you. I see you have given it away.” He looked down at her bare neck and frowned, then regained his composure. “However, I believe between the orb, you, and your mother, most of its magic is, or I should say, _was_ inside of the two of you. Now that I have extracted it from her, all I have to do is extract it from you, then I will have the amount of Fade magic I need to tear open the Veil.”

She shook her head in confusion. “Why would you, Fen’Harel, want to destroy the Veil, the only thing keeping the gods _you_ sealed away from coming back?”

“They are not _gods_. And it was a mistake to create the Veil. Creating the Veil cut off the ancient Elvhen peoples from the Fade from which they received their immortality and slowly reduced them to what they are today. Our cities, built with magic and stone, were rent between the two worlds I had suddenly created. Tearing down the Veil will restore our people. Don’t you want that?”

Briala’s mouth stopped on the first letter of “no.” She thought of all the people she had known, who had died in some way simply because they were elves. She thought of the evil in the world, and how it all traced back to the other races, especially the humans. How was Solas, or as she knew him, Fen’Harel, evil? She had been taught that way: Fen’Harel ma ghilana––the Dread Wolf guides you, Fen’Harel ma halam––the Dread Wolf ends you, and many more curses. But _why_? Fen’Harel shut the gods away. What had the gods done to make him want to do this?

Her fingers reached up to instinctively fiddle with the necklace that was no longer there. She looked down on her neck where the pendant normally rested and saw that her skin was perfect there. In that spot there were no blemishes, no bumps, no stray hairs. She thought back to how she always was able to hang off the cliffside of the crevasse when she was near death. That had been in the Fade. A part of the Fade no one ever saw because usually people die and are finished with life, but the necklace, over time, had saturated her with enough Fade magic to let her choose between life and death, similar to the immortal elves, her ancestors, who were once connected to the Fade constantly before the Veil was created and they were drained of their immortality. That was why she could not seem to die, why her mother had not given into the Calling yet, and why it was possible for Briala to be born a half-elf. The ancient elven connection between her and the Fade had bestowed upon her near-immortality, strengthened genetics, inhuman reflexes, a touch of magic, the pale blond hair of the Elvhen, and possibly more. Her mother had not worn the necklace for as long as Briala, so she was not as powerful.

Briala thought back once again to Fen’Harel’s question regarding the restoration of the Elvhen people. The Inquisitor had made it quite clear that tearing the Veil could destroy the world as it was known, but was that bad? All someone in Thedas would have to do is step outside in some city and see the contrast between the rich and the poor and notice how little most of the rich cared for the fate of the less fortunate. She focused on the words “most of.” There were good people: the Inquisitor, Varric, Cullen, Kieran, Alyne, Hawke. But was the entire world worth saving for just those people compared to all the suffering?

Yes. It was.

Her human half resisted the temptation, pushed away the idea of living as a mighty elf in Thedas, in living in a new world void of diversity.

“No.”

“No? You don’t want to live forever with your people, with your mother, in peace?”

“The ends don’t justify your means.” Briala clenched her fists. She was preparing herself for a battle.

“Ir abelas. I wished I would be able to persuade you to surrender yourself to me because without your consent, this will be painful. I have lost _everything_ for this. I will not let you end centuries’ worth of sacrifice for your unwillingness to see change.”

“You know,” she said softly, though harshly, forcing herself to ignore the tears she thought she saw gathering in his eyes, “I’ve come to learn ‘I’m sorry’ is used as an _excuse_!” She lunged on the last word and whipped out her sword. Fen’Harel held out his hand calmly. The tip of her sword slammed against his hand, and, instead of piercing it, bounced off in a green wave of energy and clattered feet away from her leaving Briala unbalanced. Green light then flowed from his fingertips and enveloped the walls, doors, paintings, and all. Briala thought it might be a sound barrier. As Thedas was currently searching for Solas, he did not want the Grey Wardens awaking and adding to Briala’s cause.

Fen’Harel pulled a staff tipped with a wolf’s skull and fired a blast of lightning at Briala. Her reflexes helped her to dodge in time, but she remained unbalanced. Solas then shot a blast of fire at her. She screamed when she noticed her clothes on fire. Dropping to the cold floor, she rolled in hopes of extinguishing the flames. Her screams continued to echo though the halls as more were produced from the inextinguishable fire. Solas bent beside her with a mournful gaze on his face.

“I told you, I wished I did not have to do this, but you must understand I have been waiting thousands of years. Likewise, I have seen thousands of deaths. One half-elf will not stand in my way.” He reached his hand to her neck and lifted her with one hand, which was surprising for his muscular size. As soon as he did, a feeling that could only be compared to a frozen sword stabbed her. She felt all the warmth drain from her skin, her body, even her soul. She screamed again, louder this time, as all that made her special was drained through her skin into this man’s fingertips.


	35. Chapter 35

35

Distance

“Do you see that?” Kieran turned toward the keep. A fresh fire they had built blazed behind him.

“What?” Hawke reclined on her blanket.

“Look at the keep.” Kieran’s voice rose anxiously.

“Are you sure?” Hawke sat up and followed his gaze. A green, shimmering film had surrounded the surface of the stonework; however, a set of doors, opened by Briala when she had entered, was unbarred.

Hawke grabbed her sword. They wordlessly ran toward the fortress, weapons in hand.

After making their way through the hallways, they saw the door to the room containing the eluvian open, and Briala inside. Her fingers rested on a dagger on her hip while an elf drained green energy from her neck. Kieran and Hawke ran toward her down the long hallway. Briala unsheathed the dagger.


	36. Chapter 36

36

Detriment

Briala’s fingers reached the dagger on her hip and unsheathed it. She turned her head when she saw her friends approaching her. She lifted the dagger. Her expression was somber, knowing if she attacked him, he would not fall in time. It would have to be her. Then, he would not get her power. He could not destroy the world. She would be a hero like Hawke, like the Inquisitor. Like her mother.

Kieran’s eyes widened in horrid comprehension. His mouth seemed to move slowly as it formed the word “no.” Hawke, thinking Briala was going to stab Solas, mouthed “yes.” Briala blearily turned her gaze to Fen’Harel. His expression was still woeful. She smiled sadly and then turned triumphant.

Fen’Harel, distracted by the interlopers, did not notice her raise the dagger. “I am not letting you destroy this world. Not on my watch.” She plunged the dagger into her heart. The shout escaped Kieran’s, Hawke’s, and Solas’s lips simultaneously. The pain came next. Her heart beat more slowly every time the convulsions pushed along the blade piercing it. It was a painful reminder of the arrow she had once found in her chest. Solas softly set her on the ground and backed away to let her friends be with her in her last moments. He knew he did not need to rush. Not yet.

Kieran reached her side first. Everything seemed so slow to Briala. To Kieran and Hawke, it was moving too quickly. Kieran spoke, but she couldn’t hear him. She simply smiled and nodded her head wearily, hoping to get the message to him that it was all right. This was what she had to do. This was her destiny. After so many escapades with death, this was it. No one would abuse her power. Ever.

A trickle of blood ran down her chin from her mouth that opened and closed as she tried to get out her last words to no avail. Hawke circled around to her other side and took her hand––a fact Briala was vaguely aware of. Briala’s hands involuntarily clutched and released both Hawke’s hand and the air. Kieran laid her head in his lap and rocked her gently. His hands tenderly stroked her pale hair. Was he sobbing? Maybe. She couldn’t tell. Her eyes closed. A shuddering breath rocked her chest. Her heart hobbled along for another few beats before stopping entirely.

And here she was again. The crevasse. This time she didn’t see her mother walking along. She only saw people dropping off hundreds of feet away from her. And Fen’Harel. There he was with his wolfskin draped over his metal armor. He watched her from the other side. This time there was no expression on his face. Briala squinted above her at the bright green sky. It rippled beautifully. She wondered what it was like in the crevasse. Well, she didn’t have to wonder anymore. This was why she had decided to plunge the dagger into her heart. She didn’t have a choice.

She let go.

She tumbled down. Her heart, strangely intact, thudded nervously. Would it hurt when she landed? Surely it wouldn’t hurt more than dying from a blade in her heart.

Thud.

The ground was unexpectedly soft. Sitting up, she studied her surroundings. Only, there were no surroundings. Only a bright, white light. She noted the crevasse hadn’t looked this bright from above. Slowly, very slowly, thin, black shapes emerged from the light. They stepped forward, as if greeting her to their alien world. Which, she realized, they were. The shapes became thicker. They became people with features. Elves. They were from her clan. Some of them. Merrinne stood over her beside her brother with the hand-shaped scar on his face. Briala swallowed with difficulty. Tears welled in her eyes while she leaped up to embrace as many people at once as possible.

“Ir abelas! Ir abelas!” she cried. She didn’t how many times she exclaimed, “I’m sorry!” She felt she needed to. This was her chance. But, she supposed, if she would be here for the rest of eternity, then she would have many more chances. They smiled at her.

“All is forgiven,” her Keeper spoke calmly. “We are here,” he gestured, “in the Fade, in peace. We have no desires except to remain here.”

“And Merrinne, I––”

“It is quite all right.” Merrinne wrapped an arm around her brother’s neck which was perfectly unharmed. Briala’s hand lifted to her chest wound. The wound was no longer. A feeling of calm settled over Briala more with every passing second. She never wanted to leave.


	37. Chapter 37

37

Patience

“No!” Kieran sobbed. He shook with fury and despair over her bloody chest. “No!” he screamed. Alyne stirred first, shortly followed by Morrigan. Alyne tucked her stray white hairs behind her immensely pointed ears.

“Where is my daughter?” Her voice suggested she was still becoming conscious. Then she spoke more clearly. “Where is my daughter? Where is Briala?” She simply looked to her side while commencing her visual search to see Briala. Her expression instantly matched that of a wounded soldier. She crawled forward on her hands and knees to her daughter’s side. Her mouth couldn’t seem to form words. Instead, she cried out with the most mournful sound that had ever reached the ears of those in the room. The cry sent ripples through the green sheen covering the walls, the first sound to make an effect on the magical sound barrier. This fully awoke Morrigan who then pushed herself to stand. Her expression turned solemn when she saw what had happened. She remained in the background, silent as Hawke and Fen’Harel.

Hawke rested a hand on Kieran’s shoulder. “We can’t bring back the dead.”

“I can.” Morrigan’s and Hawke’s gazes turned to Fen’Harel who now stood next to the eluvian. “In a way.” He stepped forward. “Will you object?”

“No.” Hawke answered without hesitation.

“Wait,” Morrigan said while glancing down at Briala’s dead body, “‘Tis a fundamental rule that magic cannot bring back the dead.”

“My ancient Fade magic works differently than that of the latter generations,” Fen’Harel spoke plainly. “Her body retains a slight connection to the Fade that is keeping her anchored to this world, but it is dissipating rapidly. If it disappears completely, none here will be joyous.”

Morrigan spoke hesitantly. “Shall there any negative consequences?”

“I will tell you that you don’t care about the consequences.”

Morrigan considered this for a moment as she watched Kieran mourn his sister. She looked back up to the bald elf and replied, “It . . . seems you are correct.”

“Then I will begin.” Fen’Harel stepped forward and leaned over Briala’s lifeless body with Kieran still over her. Fen’Harel closed his eyes, muttered a few Elvish words––“ _Halam’shivanas_ ” and “ _Banal nadas_.” His hands shook unnaturally fast over her. The wound above her heart sealed itself with his words. “ _Ar lasa mala revas_ ,” he spoke loudly. He then shouted, “ _Andaran atish’an_!” Green light burst from his fingertips and enveloped Briala’s body. The light then assimilated into her skin for several seconds. “Now,” Solas panted, “we must wait.”


	38. Chapter 38

38

Sins

Briala felt nothing but peace. There was no pain here, no desire, no sin, and no death. She could be here forever and be happy. That is why she did not notice the green light shoot down from the matching sky like a lightning bolt. It struck her with the same feeling Fen’Harel had instilled within her when he was stripping away her connection to the Fade. She was cold and felt pain, desire for it to end, the memory of sin crashing down on her, and memories of death. She could not breathe and could only watch in horror as she was lifted toward the green sky through the beam of light while her companions remaining on the ground smiled up at her as if nothing was wrong. The sky pulsed angrily around her and resisted while she was forcefully dragged through as if it was deep water. Her hair floated around her head majestically before landing exactly how it had been when she had died in her true body. Her breath returned to her in a sharp intake and felt infinitely painful. All she wished was to return to the Fade. To peace. To her true family.

She wept with the pain, how each breath reminded her of the horrors here. “Send me back,” she whimpered. “Send me back.” Kieran gave a shout for joy, ignoring her pleas, and kissed her forehead. Alyne took Briala’s hand and looked up to Fen’Harel.

“Unfortunately,” Solas said softly, “I must continue. Yea, bringing her back was worth the power it cost, but her power must make up for that loss and more.”

Kieran continued brushing her hair gently with his fingers. “I won’t let you take her power,” Alyne proclaimed, standing up.

“Ah, but this was one of the conditions. Either she dies, and no one is happy, or you let me take her power, and she will still live.” His fingers clenched his staff. Alyne did not speak while pondering the predicament. “I dislike being this harsh, but I have been waiting too long for one person to stop me.”

Morrigan pulled Alyne aside, luring her with the prospect of conversation, and cast a sleeping spell on Alyne before she could react. Alyne’s head drooped suddenly.

Briala shouted, “Mother!”

Hawke restrained Kieran and pulled him away from Briala. “What are you doing?” Kieran exclaimed. He struggled to rush back toward his sister, but Hawke was too strong for him. “Let me go!”

“We cannot hope to defeat him,” Morrigan tried to explain, but her words came out in a whisper. “Not now.”

Hawke and Morrigan watched without a word as Fen’Harel lowered his fingers to the base of Briala’s neck. Briala did not have the strength to move away, but she could still scream. “No! Don’t let him do this! Please! Kieran! Hawke!” The moment his fingers touched her skin she cried in agony. Kieran continued to pull away while Briala continued to scream.

Kieran repeatedly shouted, “No!”

“Make him stop!” Briala shrieked. “Send me back! Let me go back to the Fade!”

No one noticed the tears streaming down Morrigan’s face in the chaos. Their joint cries created minor undulations in the magic green barrier, never to be heard by anyone outside that room. No one else knew the sacrifices those there were prepared to make that day, and almost no one would understand the effects.


	39. Chapter 39

39

Undone

“It is done.” Solas stepped away from the still body. Briala had blacked out from the pain. Her hair was now dark auburn at the roots as her mother’s had once been. Morrigan finally released Kieran, and he rushed to his unconscious sister’s side. “Thank you,” Fen’Harel turned to Morrigan. She remained silent and unmoving.

Briala finally stirred. Her eyes blinked several times before resting upon Fen’Harel. “ _Fen’Harel ma halam_.” Her eyes narrowed threateningly.

“An appropriate threat.” Fen’Harel smiled sorrowfully and stepped through the eluvian without a farewell. The shimmering green coating slid away from the walls and vanished into the air. Alyne silently awoke.

“Why didn’t you let me die?” Briala whimpered. “Why didn’t you just let me die? I did it so no one would take advantage of this power again.” Briala restrained her shouting so as not to awake the slumbering Grey Wardens.

Briala looked at Morrigan just as the woman wiped the tear streaks from her cheeks. Neither spoke. Briala shivered.

“What did you do?” Alyne sat up. “What did you let him do?” she grated. Her menacing gaze focused on Morrigan.

No one spoke. Until Briala did.

“It’s colder here than in the Fade,” she commented with her teeth chattering. Kieran removed his cloak and settled it over her. Her lips were purple, and her skin was nearly as pale as the snow outside.

“We’ll bring you out to the fire.” Kieran carried her outside with Hawke and Morrigan. Alyne, as angry as she was, could do nothing about the situation and decided to follow them. He settled Briala down by the still-blazing fire in the courtyard. Alyne remained near her daughter and made several attempts to begin a conversation, but Briala did not return the favor.

Hawke remained in her own corner of the camp while Kieran settled down in a separate nook, and Briala lay by the warmth of the flames.


	40. Chapter 40

40

Hunt

“Wake up!”

Kieran awoke from a shaking on his shoulder. “What is it?” He turned over groggily.

“She’s gone. Briala’s gone.” Morrigan’s voice came from over his shoulder.

Kieran sat up and beheld Briala’s previous spot near the smoldering logs. All that remained was a depression in the snow left by her presence. He then looked to where she had formerly stationed her packs of supplies and found that those too were missing. Kieran twined his fingers together and rested his hands distressingly over his head. Alyne and Hawke were still resting.

He asked, “Where could she have gone?”

“Follow me,” his mother replied simply. She trudged through the semi-thin layer of snow toward the keep. Kieran drew his sword and followed without question. They trailed the same path as they had the day before to the room containing the eluvian. The eluvian, Kieran could see when they rounded a bend, was no longer shimmering. In fact, the glass was shattered. Shards of the magic mirror were scattered around the stone floor. It now appeared to be an ordinary broken mirror. Kieran knelt on the ground and let his hands hover over the shards wishing he could somehow repair them to find her.

“I went looking for her earlier,” Morrigan explained. “I found the mirror like this. She must have gone in and not wanted us to follow.”

“But why?”

“‘Tis simple. She was finally at peace, and our selfishness caused her to be forced to come back to everything she hated and get her powers taken away to end the world. I would be angry too.”

“I suppose so.” Kieran stood up. “And I suppose we should search for her.”

“Yes, I believe we shall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read Tranquil Turmoil after this chapter!


	41. Chapter 41

Part II

41

Stereotypes

**Three Years Later**

Briala wiped the foamy carbonation from her upper lip with the back of her hand. Her peripheral vision warned her of two men approaching from either side. She did not worry and simply raised the tankard to her lips again.

“Well, would you look at that? A knife-ears drinkin’ mead ‘n _our_ bar.” One of the men slapped his partner on the back and laughed hideously.

The second man continued, “Aren’t you s’pposed to be scrubbin’ floors or dyin’ ‘n the battlefield with your idiotic clans?” A hand grabbed her arm and prepared to drag her off her barstool and throw her to the ground. She instantly reacted, though used almost no effort. She set down the tankard and gripped his hand on her arm. Using her grabbed arm, she clutched his shoulder and spun around on her chair, forcing him to the ground face first.

“Do that again,” she unsheathed her sword and held it to his neck at astonishing speed, “and I’ll split your arse.” Patrons watched them with interest, most shouting racial slurs at Briala. The bartender ignored it all, suggesting this behavior was normal from his customers.

The aggressor’s friend remained where he stood and asked Briala, “Aren’t all arses already split, or are elves different?” He smiled wryly and reached his hand out to her bottom half to feel for himself. She spun the sword to him with its tip gleaming in the torchlight inches away from his malnourished abdomen.

“My mother already gave you one split,” she grated.

“Who’s your mother then?” he laughed but was genuinely curious for her answer.

“My mother is Birth. I am _Death_.” She lunged forward and brought her sword up to his face. She slashed sideways, leaving a horizonal gash across his nose and cheeks. His hands flew up to his face to halt the bleeding while she did the same to the man on the ground.

The man on the ground started, “You bi––”

“I am the Raven that comes in the night to pick the flesh from the corpses of the humans fighting in the war. I am the Raven that has seen every brutality. And I am the Raven that will deliver such brutality to you and pick your skin from your muscles if you do not leave immediately,” she spoke proudly. “You have been marked for your first transgression against me. The next will be your doom.” With a swish of her raven-feathered cape she had completed her egress leaving the patrons to wonder if they should avenge their foolhardy acquaintances or finish their ale. They chose the latter.


	42. Chapter 42

42

Crossroads

**Three Years Ago**

Briala had stepped through the eluvian without a second glance.

Now she was regretting it.

Her stomach rumbled painfully. Her supplies had depleted nearly a week ago. She had been in the Crossroads, as Morrigan called the maze of where the eluvians met, for three weeks. She was worried another situation like that of Xavier’s estate would arise, that she would fall asleep from hunger. Except this time, she wouldn’t awaken.

Hungry and lost, she thought of how foolish it was to have entered the eluvian alone, but she knew no one else would have allowed her to go. A dull ache resided everywhere in her body, constantly reminding her how much more it hurt to live in the waking world than in the Fade, in peace. She stopped walking and closed her eyes. The Fade. The peace. No hunger. No thirst.

She found herself collapsed on the ground. She didn’t have much time to find a way out. Every eluvian seemed to lead to a place she had been before in the Crossroads. Occasionally she would spot an upside-down island suspended in the air with a single eluvian in its center. So far, she had seen no one else. Fen’Harel was likely gone by now; she was certain he knew these pathways by heart like Morrigan. That reminded her of her brother. What had become of him? Of Hawke? Of her mother? What thoughts raced through their minds when they found she was missing? She assumed she would never know. She hoped to never see any of them again anyway.

Still, she had to keep reminding herself how angry she was.

The Crossroads was a mysterious place of mist, mirrors, and crumbling ruins. Occasionally spirits would drift by in their eerie, orange, misty forms. They were the keepers of knowledge in the Crossroads. Briala simply tried to stay away from them.

She stumbled on, occasionally testing out working eluvians to see if they led somewhere new. An eluvian with a golden frame shone from the top of an island joined to the larger floating land mass by suspended rocks. Briala cautiously stepped on each hovering rock and made it to the top. First, she stuck her arm into the undulating surface. Seeing that her arm had come back intact, she submerged her head and studied the new surroundings. It was the inside of a miniature abode, nearly a hut, and yet there was an eluvian inside. Why would such a small home, likely belonging to a poor soul, have an eluvian?

She didn’t care.

She had escaped the Crossroads. That was enough. After seeing her first bit of food, her fingers hovered over a piece of mold-spotted bread on a tabletop. There was no other visible food in the hut. She turned back to the eluvian. Sighing, she averted her gaze which landed on a shelf of books. The books were all labeled with titles regarding blood magic except for one concerning Elvhen lore. The tome was quite thin; however, it was the first book on Elvhen history Briala had ever seen. She walked away from the bread, opened the ancient cover carefully, and fingered through its pages. She couldn’t read much––only two or three words every few sentences. Written Elvish was an exceptionally rare find, and Briala was puzzled with how someone living in a hut could have gotten his or her hands on this and an eluvian. Whoever it was, she figured, had to be very interested in Elvhen history.

The doorknob turned, and the wooden door swung open. Briala darted behind it and watched as an elven mage stepped through with a necklace draped in her hands. She wore her black hair short with bits of it tied into small decorative bunches like miniature ponytails. She wore Dalish clothing, and, after she gently set the necklace on the table across from the molded bread and turned around, Briala could see she had vallaslin markings on her face. They were not the same as Briala’s. She seemed to be about thirty years of age. The woman had seen Briala after she set the necklace down. Her hands reached for her staff while Briala’s reached for her own sword.

“What are you doing in my home?” the woman asked with her hands still on her staff. Her Dalish accent was very strong.

“I came through your eluvian.” She nodded her head toward the mirror which had ceased its glowing. “I mean you no harm. My name is Briala, daughter of Alyne Sabrae, the Hero of Ferelden.” She made no mention of her father; she did not want to spread the news that she could be an heir to the throne.

The woman’s eyes shot open, and a warm smile extended across her face. “I knew I recognized you from somewhere!” Her hands dropped from her staff slung across her back and instead extended while rushing forward to embrace Briala.

Briala held out her hands to stop her. “How do you know me?”

She continued smiling warmly. “My name is Merrill, or Daisy if Varric’s here. I knew––”

“You know Varric?” _Wow_ , Briala thought, _Varric really gets around._

“Yes. He, Hawke, Aveline, and I were nearly inseparable. We always fought together!”

“You know Hawke too?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Wait, so, how do you know me?”

“I was in the Sabrae clan with your mother when she was first tainted,” she gestured to the mirror behind her, “by that eluvian. I had lost touch with her, but I will always remember her face, and you look just like her. So, tell me, how is your mother?” Merrill set her hands on her hips.

Briala’s expression turned to ice. “Good enough.” Turning around, she too set her hands on her hips to debate what to do next, where to go. “Where are we?”

“The alienage in Kirkwall. And how did you get in here?”

Briala ignored her questions. If she really was in the Free Marches, she had traveled to the other side of Thedas. She could travel southwest back to Skyhold. Or she could travel to Redcliffe. Or north to Antiva. She could go anywhere. But did she want to go back to the people who had brought her back to pain? Sure, she could end it anytime she wanted––stick a fork in her and be done––but she still had reasons to keep living.

She had two lists: one of people she wanted to avoid, the other of people she wanted to kill. The Crossroads had given her plenty of time to create those lists and decide how to check off the names. Going to Skyhold would only delay her, maybe even prevent her from finishing them. In Redcliffe she could get a job and maybe find information that would help her with her lists. Antiva could also be useful, but she was tentative with going to someplace so strange. She could––

“Da’len?”

Briala noticed she had not spoken for a few minutes and turned back to Merrill. “Oh. Ir abelas, Merrill.”

“It’s nothing.” Merrill waved it away. “I, too, do that often. I was wondering if you are planning to stay or be on your way.”

“Stay?”

“Alyne was the only one besides the Keeper,” she stopped herself and swallowed with a forlorn expression, “in the clan who was kind to me. I would do anything for her daughter.”

“Thank you for the offer, but I believe I will be heading off.” She moved to leave before Merrill gathered up the bread in a holey cloth and rushed to give it to Briala.

“Here. You look pale. I have been a terrible hostess.”

She shook her head at Merrill kindly. “It is all right.”

Merrill shoved it toward her. “Take it. I insist.”

Briala’s stomach growled pitifully, and she remembered once more how hungry she was. She tentatively reached for the bread and then broke it in half, handing a piece to Merrill. “Keep it.” Merrill hesitated before grabbing the food. Briala placed her half in her empty satchel.

“Wait!” Merrill rushed to a small chest on the ground near the table and pulled from it a cloak made of raven feathers. She held it out for Briala to take.

“I can’t.” She pushed the cloak back.

“Keep it. This is a cloak of Dirthamen, whose vallaslin I can see are tattooed on your face. The enchanted raven feathers do not rustle and will help you tread silently in your travels. It will also keep you warm, and the black feathers help to hide in the dark. I obtained this at the lost temple of Dirthamen after I heard of its existence and that the monsters inside had been cleared out by the Inquisitor.” Briala smiled and accepted the gift. “Oh! And one more thing!” She rushed to the table and held up the necklace. “Does this happen to be your mother’s?”

Briala’s eyes brightened. “Yes! Where did you find it?” She furrowed her brows. “You didn’t steal it, did you?”

Merrill stepped back and clutched at her heart. “I would never steal this,” She added under her breath, “in most cases. But no. I did not steal it. I paid handsomely for it with the coins I received from another Elvhen artifact. I bought this,” she held up the necklace which dangled like pendulum between her fingers, “in Orlais a few weeks ago. The city elf I bought it from seemed quite pleased.”

Briala smiled. “Yes, that is my mother’s.”

Merrill stretched out her hand for Briala to receive it. Merrill pulled it back to her chest. Briala could feel the power of the Fade beckoning to her from the pendant. Briala noticed her fingers had been outstretched, and a greedy expression had wormed its way onto her face. “I paid handsomely for this because I hoped to one day give it to Alyne, but, instead, I am entrusting it to you. The only other belonging you will have that is more precious than this is your life. There is little left now of our people. We must stay alive.” Her eyes shone over with liquid. “I can sense that you have visited the Fade many times and have not come back whole. Promise me you will not return there willingly.”

Briala’s fingers began to twitch toward the necklace, but she held them still. “I promise.” She only half-heard herself.

She held out the necklace for Briala to take. “All right then––”

Briala snatched it from her hand and slid it over her neck, breathing a comfortable sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she replied hastily without looking up from the name-bearing pendant between her fingers.

“As long as you honor your promise,” Merrill responded, “It is quite all right. Dareth shiral, da’len.”

“Ma serannas, Merrill.”

She left the hut as quickly as she had entered, her hand still clutching the pendant.


	43. Chapter 43

43

Mistaken

**Present Day**

“You can’t hurt one of my boys without gettin’ cut.” A man, this one burlier and hairier than the men in the bar Briala had encountered, grabbed her arm––mistake number one. Then he had insulted her––mistake number two.

 _How long will it take for these men to learn?_ she thought exasperatedly.

“Let go,” she grated, “before you too are on my list. I give no third chances.”

He spun her around. He had bright red hair, a long plaited beard, and a stocky appearance which marked him as a dwarf, or, more specifically, Oghren the dwarf, once a Grey Warden––famous for drinking. She could now smell the ale on his breath. He smiled as if the whole experience was simply a joke. Her thin arm slipped through his short fingers easily when she pulled away.

“He made a Mistake. You have too.” She verbally called attention to the scar running along his nose and cheeks where hair no longer grew.

He grunted and set his hands on his hips. “So what? Have you ever _actually_ killed anyone because they made a second ‘Mistake’?”

She disliked the mocking tone in his voice. The sound of a dagger whizzing from its sheath followed the gleam of it an inch away from Oghren’s neck. “There is a first for everything, isn’t there? But yes. People have made second Mistakes, and it ended badly for all of them.”

“Are you a sodding legislator now? Writing laws for those who offend you?” He rolled his eyes and didn’t seem perturbed at the fact she could kill him if he spoke the wrong words. “You are a kid, same as when I first met you.”

“I am no child!” she shouted hysterically. The dagger pressed into his skin. “Do not call me that!”

“All right! Enough! You’re a senior citizen. Happy now? At least you have the hair color to prove it.” He gestured to her white-blond hair.

She growled and sheathed her dagger, seeing as this was going nowhere and turned her back to him with her hands on her hips. “Why are you traveling with humans, Oghren?”

“Orzammar has too many politics and not enough good beer. It tastes like dirt. At least up here on the surface I get to try new things. And I like surface beer.”

“Have you gone back since we left?” She asked with only half her attention in the conversation. She seemed to be listening for something.

“No. Anyway, these humans are just some boys I hired to keep assassins like you off my trail.”

Normally she would have argued she wasn’t an assassin, but instead she commanded, “Hide.”

“What?”

“Hide,” she whispered loudly. He faltered before running into the greenery on either side of the road before the tavern. A wagon bounced its way along the rocky road before its driver halted the horses next to Briala.

“‘ey, boss,” the driver shouted to the wagon’s occupants, “is this girl ‘ere ‘o you been lookin’ for?” The driver especially paid attention to her white-blond hair. A section of the wagon lifted, and a head with a few weeks-old cut across his nose and cheeks poked out. The face possessed a strong chin, some stubble, and dark, menacing eyes.

“Yes,” the rider spoke in a clear Ferelden accent, “it is.” The wooden flap fell down, and the man disappeared for a moment before reappearing at the back of the wagon. He slowly walked to Briala, examining her as he did so with his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Well,” he spoke slyly, yet with a smile, “I see you haven’t left Lothering, this heap of dung.” He spat on the ground, and the shape his face made as he did so looked just as unpleasant as his smile. He opened his arms, gesturing to the surrounding forest. “Would you look at this? This tavern is the last nice place here in the muck after the filthy darkspawn turned it into this refuse. Why _are_ you still here?” He chortled. “Did you miss me?” Briala was desperate to keep her breathing even and her blades in their sheaths, though this man did not deserve a second chance. “My wife and daughters have been missing me in all this time I’ve spent searching for you.” He shook a dirty finger at her. “You are a _hard_ woman to find.” He ran the finger over the large scab on his face. “After you gave me this, you didn’t expect me to just forget about it, did you? My wife asked what happened, and this idiot,” he gestured to the driver who watched a butterfly meander through the air in the distance, “blabbed about it to her. My wife ain’t no fun anymore. She’s as fat as the hog we have lounging in the mud pit behind our hut of a house! I was only trying to get some enjoyment in when you came and helped that one wench be on her way. And when you stopped me from having that fun with _you_ . . . Tsk, tsk.” Shaking his finger as if at a naughty child, he stood directly in front of her with body odor radiating off of him. “Maybe I’ll get my fun after all.” His hand reached up near Briala’s chest.

“The problem with men,” Briala spoke slowly, “is that they don’t pay attention _where_ they sheath their swords.” The blade didn’t catch the sun’s light this time when it cut through his flesh without a sound from diaphragm down. He fell, bleeding out and whimpering pathetically on the ground. The driver, seeing this, turned the horses and wagon around and rode away after frowning sadly at the butterfly he was leaving behind. Briala stepped over the rapist with a smile. “At least _I_ know where my sword should be sheathed.” She moved away and slid the blade in its scabbard for emphasis. “One Mistake too many,” she whispered to herself. “Well, I guess I’ll save that for next time. The sword in the sheath was too good to pass up.”

Oghren stepped out from the tree line with wide eyes. “Do you do that every time?”

“No,” she replied, “just with people like him.” She looked back at the bloody corpse behind her.

“How many has he . . .?” He trailed off.

“At least eight women that I could find. I’ve helped them as much as I could, but there’s no erasing what he’s done to them.” Her voice mirrored the pain of the lives that man had ruined and what the man had nearly done to her. If she hadn’t had her sword with her, she would have ended with the same painful memories those other eight women had.

Oghren didn’t speak for quite a while, then suddenly cleared his throat. “What do you say we do now?”

“I’m leaving,” she answered without looking away from the corpse.

“I’m coming with you.”

“What about your boys in the tavern?”

“I already paid them. This will be good news for them.” He chuckled emptily. “Where to next?”

“I’ve done all I can for Lothering. I think it’s time to visit the Circle.”

“The Circle of Magi? You can’t be serious. Last time you went there––”

“My last experience taught me a lesson. I won’t be stupid this time.” Her hands brushed a deep scar along the base of her right ear.

“ _Young love_ doesn’t make you stupid,” he corrected. “It’s the _one_ you love who will.”


	44. Chapter 44

44

Circles

**Past**

“The Circle of Magi,” Briala whispered to herself. Mages who had either been captured or submitted themselves to the Circle were trained for the Circle’s purposes and were even sometimes turned Tranquil to prevent demons from wanting to possess them. Mages were the most susceptible to possession due to their strong link to the Fade from which they got their power. Briala remembered the Tranquils from Xavier’s estate and how they almost seemed to enjoy slavery. She shivered, though it was not from the cold spray of Lake Calenhad surrounding the Circle Tower. The Circle was currently operated by a confidant of Vivienne of Orlais. Vivienne was once a friend to Inquisitor Lanahris Lavellan.

Briala wasn’t planning on going to the Circle anyway. She was working at the Calenhad Docks to pay off her journey to Lake Calenhad and possibly earn enough money to head to Redcliffe on the south bank of Lake Calenhad. In Redcliffe she thought she could earn some more coin. She turned around and continued sweeping the docks. A few blisters on the palms of her hands made the movements somewhat painful, but it gave her comfort to know that after a while she would develop callouses, and it wouldn’t hurt so much. The scent of feces and seaweed permeated around the docks. She paused again to wipe the sweat from her brow and look up with her hand covering the glare from the sun. It was an unusually hot day for the docks. For the last six days she had been there the temperatures were moderate. It almost made her wonder if a mage in the Circle had somehow changed the weather.

A shout came from the other end of the docks. “‘ey, knife-ears! Keep workin’!”

She resumed her sweeping, though she believed this task was pointless. The docks would get covered in seaweed and mud within a few hours when the next ship would come to make a stop before arriving at Redcliffe.

While she was sweeping, she looked out over the water. A rowboat approached with one templar inside. She felt hands retrain her arms from behind her. “You are under arrest by order of the templars of the Kinloch Hold Circle of Magi,” a male voice came from behind her.

She dropped the broom and struggled against the armored arms. “Why am I under arrest?”

“You will be brought to the Circle Tower for further questioning,” he continued, disregarding her inquiry. He dragged her toward the rowboat which was now moored at the closest port.

“Tell me what my crimes are!”

“Be quiet, elf!” The templar thrust her into the rowboat, and she nearly fell over the far side. The other templar was forced to leap out of the way of her flailing limbs. The templar on the docks climbed into the rowboat and commanded the other to start paddling. Grabby, as she had nicknamed the templar who had arrested her, cut the rope mooring the rowboat to the docks with his sword.

“So,” she began cautiously, “can you answer now?”

“Elves shouldn’t speak unless spoken to,” the rower remarked.

“I was spoken to!” she complained. She crossed her arms and awaited her trial for her unknown crime.

. . .

It took nearly half an hour to arrive at the Circle Tower. Grabby pulled her out roughly and left the rower to moor the boat once more. Grabby brought her up the stairs leading to the entry for the tower. The templars guarding the doors immediately opened them when Grabby approached. Grabby then shoved her inside, almost resulting in her falling forward on her face. She looked back to shoot him a furious glare but was instead captivated by the interior of the tower, or, more accurately, those inside of it. Dozens of templars watched warily as mages practiced their spells on dummies. It was as if they were training an army. A templar wearing armor showing that he was a commander stepped forward.

“Another rabbit?” the commander asked. His voice sounded bored. Briala cringed at the pejorative term.

“Yes, ser,” Grabby replied.

“Put her with the others. Target practice is this afternoon. She won’t have to wait for long.” The commander walked away.

 _What?_ Briala thought. _Target practice? Surely, they wouldn’t . . ._

Grabby prodded her through the Circle Tower past the mages. She perceived the hateful glares each of the mages sent her way.

The halls twisted like a maze and eventually led to a dungeon below ground level. Briala was led, nudged rather, down the corridor with cells on both sides. Elves, Dalish and city alike, though mostly city, grabbed at their bars and reached out to Briala. There were at least a dozen, all looking starved and ashen. Fear fluttered in Briala’s chest before she too was thrust into a cell reeking of urine and feces. Her face landed inches away from a moldy piece of something. All she knew was that it wasn’t something she would want to stick her nose in. However, she shortly noticed her hand had landed in something similar. It was crunchy, and the smell released from it lived up to its appearance.

The iron-barred door slammed shut behind her, and the sound of a key being turned in the lock followed shortly after.

“Why?” Briala implored, pushing herself to her feet.

“You haven’t heard? An elf is tearing up the Veil. Soul-Ass, I think his name was.” He chuckled a bit.

“Solas,” Briala whispered.

“Did you say something?”

“No.”

“Anyway,” he waved his hand, “we’re rounding up the elves, the templar order and mages, I mean. Many of the elves have infiltrated key places in Thedas and have gathered information for Soul-Ass. The templar order has been capturing any elves we find and using them to train our mages.” He smiled evilly.

“Why are you answering my questions now?”

“Now I know what will happen to you. You will be used for target practice.”

“This isn’t much of a trial. How do you templars know if I work for this,” she decided to not draw attention to the fact that she already knew his name, “Soul-Ass?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he answered smugly. “You are an elf. Elves don’t deserve the rights humans do.”

“Why not?” She lifted back her hair to reveal her ears. “Does the shape of my ears cause you shems so much distress I deserve to die? Why do _you_ hate elves? Why do so many humans hate elves?”

He whispered slowly, “You were born.” Then he smiled again. “Enjoy your little bit of life, knife-ears. Maybe once you’re dead I’ll keep your ears as a trophy.”

“No!” She shrieked, grabbed the bars of her cell, and rattled them. She wished she hadn’t removed her weapons at the docks as her employer had commanded her to do as one of the terms of their arrangement.

“No use,” an elf said from a cell opposite Briala’s. “Bars won’t give. Death comes soon.”

She looked up to examine the woman talking to her. She looked old––having grey hair and many wrinkles, though Briala knew Keepers often looked older than they were from the stress of keeping their clans safe. Yes, she knew this woman was a Keeper. Magic emanated off her.

The Keeper began a sort of chant in Elvish that Briala recognized as a greeting for one entering the Fade in death. She was preparing to die.

Another elf spoke from farther down the corridor. “What is your name, newcomer, and from where do you hail?”

“My name is Briala, and I come from the Dalish of the Exalted Plains. You do not speak like a Dalish, and your accent is Ferelden.”

“You are correct. I am a city elf. My name is Tamthorn, though a lady such as yourself may call me Tam.”

“I don’t believe this is the best time for flattery,” Briala said flatly.

“Forgive me. I hail from Redcliffe castle where I was a servant for much of my life. Meeting such a fine woman is rare for me.”

She ignored his complement. “A servant?”

“Elves have little purpose being important in a place such as Redcliffe. Anyway, that is in the past. I was brought here after the templars began ordering all known elves to be sent to Kinloch Hold. I was, for a while, quite an important mage here.”

“How would they have learned you had skill if you were locked up for being as elf as we are now?” Briala was constantly leaning every which way to see his face, though she could not in the dimly lit chambers.

He chuckled warmly. It sounded wonderful in contrast to the gloomy dungeons. “It’s actually quite a funny story. I had a dream involving, ahem, a woman. It was quite pleasurable, but it seemed it caused me to free all the prisoners in my sleep while remaining in my own cell. No one, including me, knows how I did it, but it impressed the templars enough to hide my ears and consider me a mage in training.”

“It seems highly unlikely that the templars would do that,” she said skeptically.

“Yes,” he continued, “but this was several years ago. The templars weren’t as worried and biased as they are now. As you can see, they remembered the shape of my ears and threw me back in here.”

“Are you certain you haven’t found a way to free us?”

She could almost sense him smile. “Actually, I might have.” He was silent while a blue light grew from his fingers. Shards of the light broke off and shot into the locks of each of the cells. Tam stepped out of his cell. Briala could now see what he looked like. His hair was the hue of dark chocolate and tufted at the front handsomely. A bit of stubble covered on his chin. His eyes matched his hair. His robes were somewhat armored, and the bottom ended around his thighs with threadbare pants underneath. He held his arms out. “Good? Bad? Ugly?”

She smiled slyly in spite of herself. “Not bad.”

“Ah, I had hoped that would be the case. Much work went into these muscles.” He flexed his biceps playfully. He then studied her cloak of raven feathers in admiration. That was the one item she had refused to remove when it came to listening to her boss on the docks.

“How did you unlock the cells?” she asked.

He smiled shyly. “I . . . imagined a situation that gave me . . . excitement.”

She frowned. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“Well, if I hadn’t, we wouldn’t be free.”

She ignored him. “Come,” she spoke to the former prisoners, “you are now free.”

“We’re not half-wits,” a male voice came from near an open cell door. “We know we are free; we’re just not stupid enough to try to escape.”

“Fine then,” Tam said. “We can escape, can’t we, Raven?”

“Raven?”

He smiled foolishly. “Your cloak? Raven feathers?”

She looked down. “Oh. I can see why, I suppose.” Her gaze returned to him. His eyes were so reassuring. She believed they could escape. Together. “Yes. Now let’s go.”

“Let’s.” Tam gently took her arm and led her to the stairs. He creaked open the door, and the two templars noticed. They drew their swords, but Tam shot an orange blast from his fingertips which stunned them. “I don’t have much mana left. I’ll need your help getting out of here.”

“It’ll be my pleasure,” she replied while popping her knuckles. “Where’s the exit?”

“Well, there’s the main hall which goes to the cave entrance, or we could leave through the supply room near the back of the tower which eventually leads to the cave entrance. The latter is farther away but likely has fewer guards. Time is of the essence; templars could notice our absence in minutes or hours. Whatever the case, we should hurry in making our decision.”

“Seeing as how we don’t have any weapons besides your last bit of magic, I say we head to the supply room.”

“I agree.” Tam turned left in the T of the hallway with Briala following him and stuck to the shadows the torches left in between.

“Tam,” she began quietly, “what was it like, being a servant elf? Were they kind to you?”

He whispered, “No one is kind to servants that I have seen, especially elven servants.”

“Do you know why humans hate elves?”

“I suspect it is because of our history. If anything, it is us who should be hateful of them, and, I suppose, some of us elves are hateful of the humans. In ancient times, humans came to Thedas and forced us off our land. They cut down our trees, slayed our halla, raped our women, and enslaved our people. They stripped away our culture and forced theirs upon us. They destroyed Arlathan and then took the Dales from us. Many elves are Tevinter slaves and Orlesian servants now.”

“I once believed,” she spoke even more quietly, “that Fen’Harel, or Solas, purposefully destroyed our culture, our people. But then I learned that history strengthens the lines between good and evil, and doing so makes some in history seem evil when they are good, or good when they are evil. Fen’Harel was trying to save our people from the gods,” her hand instinctively reached to her face where her permanent vallaslin markings remained as part of her skin, a tribute to gods she no longer worshipped. “But he made a mistake, as all do.” She looked at her feet marching across the worn stone. His fingers reached for hers. Her first instinct was to pull away before she thought, _How is this so bad?_

“Love will prevail against hatred,” he whispered near her ear.

“I . . . hope so.” A wonderful tingling fluttered up her arm. She had felt this way once while in her clan when a boy called her pretty and kissed her hand. Then she experienced a choking feeling when she remembered the boy’s lifeless body riddled with red lyrium arrows. She swallowed heavily as if to digest the memory and leave it forever.

Minutes later they arrived at the storage room. “Here we are,” he said. “The exit is the dumbwaiter over there.”

She started forward, then stopped. “Wait.” she turned around. “Someone has to stay here to operate the dumbwaiter.”

“Yes,” he said sadly. He watched her with his deep brown eyes. “Someone does. Now go.”

“Why you? You freed me! Let me stay. I’ll find some way out.”

“You’re wrong.” He stepped forward and took her hands. The tingled feelings returned.

 _Stop,_ she told herself. _This isn’t you, Briala. You don’t fall in love at first sight. It is only in the old tales._ She couldn’t let him be another victim of her survival.

She looked down to hide her wet eyes. He continued, “You freed me. I have my magic. I’ll think of some way to get out.”

“If you knew about the dumbwaiter, why did you let us come this way?”

His hands squeezed her fingers comfortingly. “This was the safest way for you.”

She looked up, and a single tear fell from her eye. “Why does everyone I know die?”

He stepped forward and embraced her. She rested her head on his shoulder. “You are worth dying for.” She wept quietly into his shoulder. Somehow, he seemed to be synonymous with the boy from her clan, with the elf from the kitchen in Skyhold, with all the people she had seen die for her or for what they believed in. He ran his fingers through her hair and pressed his nose into it, breathing deeply. “You must go,” he uttered. “This world needs you.”

“Please.” The tears would not stop. “Don’t let this happen to me again.”

He gently pushed her away and repeated, “You must go.”

She staggered into the dumbwaiter. Tam moved to the mechanisms and pushed against the wheel to turn the gears, operating the pulleys and lowering the dumbwaiter. Briala stood still to not make the dumbwaiter without walls wobble. Still, she continued to snivel, “Not again.” Why was she always so helpless? Why did it always have to be someone else who saved her by sacrificing themselves? She wrapped her arms around her knees and tried not to think of what would happen when the templars found Tam. Suddenly she heard a thump above her which was followed by the dumbwaiter swaying from side to side. Her head snapped up and saw Tam sprawled out on the metalwork above her. “Tam!” She stood up, and the dumbwaiter continued to rattle and descend toward the framework below her. She gripped one of the four supports connecting the floor of the dumbwaiter to the top.

“I’m okay,” he declared shakily. He held his hand up to signal the same.

“How is it still moving?” She looked up apprehensively at the pulleys.

“Magic.” He breathed heavily. “That’s nearly the last of my mana.”

“No worries.” She smiled and patted a hilt showing behind her back. “I got a souvenir from one of those templar guards.”

He laughed. “I’m surprised I didn’t notice that.”

“You will learn to never be surprised with me.”

“And the same with me,” he smiled and spoke cunningly. He held up a bag of supplies he had grabbed from the storage room. “In here are waterskins and enough food to last a few weeks.” The dumbwaiter finally reached the framework, and Briala helped Tam off. “Whew.” He stretched with his hands on his lower back, and Briala hugged him.

“Thank you.”

“It . . . was no problem.” He grunted, let go, and rubbed his back again. “That metal hurts! All right. Let’s go.” He led her to a rowboat stationed near the Circle Tower’s rear dock. They jumped in with him taking control of the oars.

“Do you have a plan?” she asked.

“I think the best place to go will be Orzammar.”

“Why Orzammar? Would they even let us in?”

“Seeing as I was sent away from Redcliffe,” he grunted with a push of the oars, “Orzammar is the closest place we can hide. We can use Gherlen’s Pass to get underground into the dwarven city. Maybe we’ll find some work there. Dwarves aren’t typically as hateful of the elves as the humans.”

“How do you know? I thought you had stayed in Redcliffe and the Circle for most of your life.”

“All of my life,” he corrected. “I _heard_ that the dwarves aren’t as hateful.” He shrugged. “I’ve been planning this for a while, just in case. Gherlen’s Pass can give us a safe passage to Orlais if we wish to escape to there.”

“I’m not going back to Orlais. Not anytime soon.”

“Okay . . .” He rowed in silence. Dark, cold waters lapped against and sometimes over their small craft. “Ugh.” He moved to the back of the rowboat and massaged his lower back. “Is there any way you could row for a while? I think that jump hurt me more than I thought.” She took his place and began rowing at more than twice his speed. His eyes widened admiringly and with surprise. “Can we talk about what happened in Orlais?” he asked tentatively.

“No.” Her veins bulged in her unnaturally bulky arms for an elf, which were still quite skinny.

The spray from the lake entered their eyes and mouths, and both Briala and Tam would occasionally spit it out. “The docks are just up ahead.”

“I know.” The mention of Orlais left her agitated. “I was just at the docks over an hour ago.”

“What else am I supposed to talk about?” He held his hands out questioningly.

“ _Be quiet._ Your voice will carry over these waters.” A fog had begun to settle, and the sun was hiding over the hills in the distance with faint traces of reds, oranges, and pinks beginning to emerge.

“It’s beautiful, the sunset.” His hand swept toward the painted sky.

“Yes,” she answered quietly, calmly, “it is.”

“Did you see many sunsets through the trees while in your clan?”

A hint of a smile etched itself across her face. “Yes, actually. When I was a child, I would climb to the tops of the trees to watch the sunsets, and the sun rises, whenever I could.” She closed her eyes and gave her arms a rest from the rowing. “I can still feel the rough bark beneath my skin. And the air untouched by humans blowing against my face. The air would bring a scent you might smell after a good rain, but to me, that wind brought the scent of life. Leaves, glistening with moisture from an overnight rain. Fresh dirt turned over by halla hooves. Birth. Life. Death––the reminder we all return to the earth to give back to what is still living and what will be. That was what the wind brought. And we Dalish would follow that wind, chase it, until it would be time for the Arlathavhen, when we would gather with our distant relatives and relive the forest and our people in full glory.” She opened her eyes. “But those days have past. The elven people are dying, Dalish and city alike.”

“And yet it sounds wonderful.” He quickly added, “The forest, I mean. And the wind. Sometimes I would step outside of Redcliffe castle to . . . relieve myself, and I would get the wind in my face. Most often it smelt of manure and rotten eggs, but around springtime there would be this smell. I think it is what you were describing. The rain smell?”

She continued rowing. “I cannot know what you have smelled, Tam.”

“Anyway, I like your description.”

“How old are you?” she asked a few moments later.

“Servants don’t normally keep track of how old they are, but based on some key factors,” he counted off on his fingers, though he seemed to not quite know how to count, “I believe I’m about sixteen to possibly twenty years of age.”

She smiled. “You speak quite eloquently for not knowing how to count.”

“I can count! One, two, three, five, er, eight, nine . . . Oh! Seven, no, six. Crap.”

Laughter overcame her. “I don’t believe ‘crap’ is a number.”

“It’s number two!” He huffed in annoyance and crossed his arms. “You know what I mean. It’s not like the nobles waste time and coin teaching elven servants how to count, or read, or write. Oh, we’re here.”

“I can see that.” Briala took a rope from the bottom of the rowboat and tied it to a ring on a mooring. She deftly stepped out the boat and helped Tam up. “Stealth or speed?”

“What?”

“Should we get out of here using stealth or speed? The templars could be looking for us now.”

“Speed. Any of these men here could turn us in at any moment.” He peered uneasily at the men readying their ships for tomorrow’s journeys.

Briala headed off southwest with Tam following her. They never looked back.


	45. Chapter 45

45

Underground

“How about we . . . how about we rest for a bit?” Tam settled down on a pile of boulders at the side of the road.

“Rest?” Briala stopped and turned back. “We can’t rest now!”

“We’ve been traveling all night!”

“Quiet!” She glanced around. “We have not been traveling all night. We’ve only been walking for a few hours.”

“‘Walking’?” He took off his boot and massaged his foot. A sickly smell was carried by the wind from his foot to her face, at which she almost gagged. “Your walk is nearly a jog! You look like you’re ready to end the next Blight when we’re only trying to run away from some templars!”

“Then you must be out of shape.” She started “walking” again.

“I’ve been training to be a mage, not the king’s messenger. And we’re close enough to Orzammar that we should walk anyway. It will look suspicious if we come running at their front gates as if we’re fugitives.”

“We are fugitives,” she corrected while still walking.

He put his boot back on and stood up. “We don’t want to look like fugitives if we’re asking to be let in. I’m sure the dwarves don’t want templars knocking at their doors.” He jogged after her.

“And I’m sure the dwarves will _love_ to let in two elves. Might I remind you the entire elven race is fugitive?”

“Did you just speak sarcastically?”

She didn’t answer, but he could have sworn she smiled.

They arrived at the gates a half-hour later. The gates themselves were solid metal and engraved with designs characteristic of the dwarves. The structure behind the entry reached high into the air with perfectly sculpted columns. Two dwarven males guarded the enormous doors. Their eyes followed the elves as the fugitives approached. Both had long plaited beards, heavy armor, and idiosyncratic stocky builds. They simultaneously thumped the hilts of their axes on the ground with resounding echoes and crossed them in an X once Briala and Tam walked up the steps leading to the entry.

“What is your business in Orzammar?” the man on the right questioned.

Tam stepped forward to speak, but Briala spoke up first and pushed him aside. “We are but two poor, hungry elves.” She pouted her lips and elbowed Tam in the ribs to do the same. “We have come to the greatest city in Thedas in hopes to lay eyes on it before we starve.”

“You lie,” the man on the left stated flatly.

“What?” Tam stepped forward once more. “Why would we lie to you? We have been poor our entire lives, and our only wish is to see a culture as great as ours once was.”

Leftie faltered. Righty spoke again. “We only admit those who have family or friends inside the walls these days. The world is too untrustworthy.”

“I see.” Tam scratched his stubble.

“Oghren,” Briala said. “We’re here to see Oghren.”

Leftie’s face darkened. “Of course you are. Everyone wants to see the ‘Hero of Orzammar.’ Welcome.” He and Righty withdrew their axes. Righty pulled a horn from his belt and blew it. A second later, the doors swung open. The elves stepped in slowly and admired the statues and carvings in the entrance, though they were forced to jump forward as the doors were slammed shut behind them by the outside guards.

Briala whispered to Tam, “What are they?”

“The statues? I’ve heard of them. I believe they’re called Paragons. They are important figures in dwarven history, memorialized by these carvings. Hey. How did you know some dwarf’s name?”

“My mother used to talk about him whenever she mentioned the Durgen’len.” He stared blankly at her. “The dwarves. Oghren was one of her companions during her fight against the Fifth Blight.”

“Wait.” She smiled as he contemplated this. “Your mother . . . fought during the Fifth Blight?”

“Not just fought. She defeated the archdemon.”

“She can’t be––”

“––Alyne Sabrae.”

“No. It-it isn’t possible. Your mother can’t be . . . can’t be the Hero of Ferelden.” Her smile broadened as she forgot she was supposed to be angry at her mother. “That. Is amazing.”

“Come on. We need to find Oghren. We need his help.”

He followed while still considering Briala being the daughter of the Hero. The hall of Paragons ended at another set of metal doors, these ones smaller and unguarded. Briala pushed open the heavy set of doors, stepped through, and immediately grew distracted from the new scenery. The dwarves were famed for their underground cities, but the stories never did them justice. Carvings hundreds of feet high formed the walls of the stunning underground expanse. Lava flowing at the bottom of the cavern provided heat and light to the city. A bridge in front of the two elves spanned across the lava guarded by many dwarves. Paths followed the walls circularly to the right and left of the doors behind the elves. Signs written in the dwarven and Ferelden languages occasionally marked shops, homes, and statues. There was even a chantry to the travelers’ left, even though dwarves didn’t typically worship the Maker.

“Where to first?” Tam asked.

“My mother said that Oghren is the drinking type, so let’s head to the tavern.” She pointed to the right. “The signs indicate the tavern is this way.”

They stepped into the tavern––Tapster’s was its name––and the smell of body odor, strong alcohol, and dirt immediately hit them. A bar song was being sung by a man dancing on a table––a dwarf with a long, red plaited beard split in two. He swung an axe over his head while singing,

“Oh! And the dra-gon was dead. I chop-ped off its head! And the Hero of Fer-el-den said . . . ‘Would ‘ya like to meet me in my bed?’ Oh!”

Everyone lifted their tankards and shouted in unison. “Oh!”

The red-haired dwarf buried his axe in the table resulting in an angry shout from the bartender. “All right! That’s enough, Oghren! Get down or get out!” He threw down his polishing towel and stamped toward the Hero of Orzammar.

“Hey!” Oghren shouted, sloshing a tankard’s contents handed to him by a customer.

The patrons bellowed, “Hey!”

“Yes,” Oghren continued with his bar song, “the Hero of Fer-el-den, wan-ted me in bed! Ho!”

“Hey!”

“Ho!”

“Hey!”

“Wan-ted to see me in her bed!” He jumped up and fell off the table on his back. “Hey,” he continued, barely conscious. He lifted the tankard to his lips, but he had spilled the remainder in his fall. The bartender stepped behind him, wrapping his hands below his armpits, and dragged him out of the tavern, depositing him outside. Briala and Tam followed Oghren who was muttering, “Dragon . . . wanted . . . her . . . bed. Oh, hey!” He waved his hand at the elves peering down at him. “Alyne! You . . . really do want . . . Time for bed?”

Briala scoffed. “Get up, Oghren. I’m not Alyne.”

He reached his hand up. “Alyne . . .” His hand dropped back down, and he began to snore.

“Should we leave him here, or . . .” Tam trailed off.

She asked, “Do you know where he lives?”

Tam pointed farther down the path at a golden sign that read “Oghren’s house” in Ferelden.

“Oh. I suppose it’s smart for him to have his home near the tavern.” She did the same as the bartender had done, wrapping her hands under his arms, and grunted. “A little help here, Tam.”

“Oh.” He moved around to Oghren’s feet and lifted them, moving in sync with Briala toward Oghren’s not-so-humble home. They saw the abode was larger than the rest of the buildings along the wall and seemed to have been carved from the cavern recently. They set him down, and Briala tried the door. “Is there a key?” Tam asked.

She knelt down to Oghren and took a necklace from his neck shaped like a key. Passersby whispered among themselves wondering what two elves were doing with Oghren. A few laughed, already knowing what had happened and commented, “Typical Oghren.”

Briala turned the key in the lock and opened the door. Then she let the necklace fall back around Oghren’s neck. The elves lifted the dwarf once more and carried him inside, laying him down on a spacious bed. Tam turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” Briala asked.

“I’m leaving to find lodging for the night, unless you want to sleep out on the street where we could get robbed.”

“Oghren isn’t a stranger, and he won’t notice we’re here until at least midday tomorrow. We can stay here.” She reclined on a lounge sofa made from nug skin.

Tam’s face contorted in disgust. “You don’t know what he’s done on that!”

“He’s a drunkard, not an orgiastic.”

“Have you considered your mother may have left that part out?” He eyed the room for someplace that might not be contaminated if he was correct. “Uh, I think I’ll just keep watch.”

“Come on, Tam. You just left a dungeon, and yet you’re more perturbed about a wealthy man’s house!”

Oghren moaned unhappily.

“Ugh. Raven, I don’t think we should stay here.”

“You need more lyrium if and when you run out of mana if we get attacked. Dwarves mine lyrium, and I’m sure someone with enough influence such as Oghren will be able to get us some. What was your plan, then, if not to seek shelter with someone here?”

“My plan didn’t include someone else. I was getting to that part when you showed up.”

She sighed. “Once we get the lyrium, we can leave, go anywhere we want. Just get some sleep, and we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“Okay.” He guardedly settled himself down in a chair and closed his eyes. After a few minutes he opened them again to see Briala already sleeping soundly. He smiled at her face, for it was the first time he had seen it look so peaceful. Then, he began to hum a song to comfort her and himself. The sound was melodic and rose and fell in pitch very quickly. It was beautiful. He had learned it from his mother who was once part of a Dalish clan. “Sleep well, Raven,” he whispered when the song was over before closing his eyes once more.


	46. Chapter 46

46

Annihilation

Briala watched from the top of the cliff as her mother fell into the crevasse, followed by Hawke, Morrigan, the Inquisitor, Cullen, Varric, and Kieran. Tears streamed down her face. She was unable to save any of them. Then she saw Tam hanging onto the ledge. She ran to him and grabbed his hand before he fell. “I’ve got you!” she grunted. “Pull yourself up!” Her feet slipped, and she lost her grip on his hand.

“Raven!” The sound of his voice grew quieter until fading completely into the darkness of the pit. Her hands remained extended––yet another person she couldn’t save.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Then she had an idea. She lowered herself on the ledge with her arms being her only connection to the top. This time it took effort for her to stay on the ledge, but that was not what she wanted to do. She loosened her hold on the ledge.

“Raven!” Tam ran to her. He was on the ledge, somehow. “Take my hand!”

“How are you there?” She looked back to the pit wondering how he could be in two places at once.

“Just do it! This isn’t real. Wake up.” He disappeared like a mist, though the voice seemed to echo more with each second. “Wake up. Wake up!” The Fade faded away into Oghren’s home. Tam was standing over her with a terrified expression. “Are you all right?”

She was shaking, sweating, and she noticed watery tear lines on her cheeks. She swallowed. “It . . . I thought it was real. Was it real?”

“No. It was a dream.”

“I saw you die, and then you were behind me. What happened?”

“As I understand it, you dreamt that I died. Everyone except for dwarves unconsciously, mentally, travels to the Fade while dreaming. Since I am a mage, I can control what I see in the Fade and my actions, unlike non-mages, who simply drift between strange places in the Fade. The me you saw behind you, who awoke you, that was the real me. I, ahem, was visiting your dream, just out of curiosity,” he scratched his head nervously, “and I saw you were in danger because your dream seemed too real; although, a death in the Fade does not kill your true body. It simply makes you Tranquil. I couldn’t let that happen, so I woke you.” He politely backed away to let her consider this. He began slowly, “That was Death that you visited, the fissure. I’m surprised you dreamt of that. Most only dream of what they have seen. How could you know what Death looks like?”

“I have been there. Multiple times, each worse than the last.”

“ _How?_ ”

She reached for her necklace and pulled it out from beneath her shirt. “This is infused with Fade magic. Over the years it has given me near-the-same immortality that the Elvhen peoples once had because of their connection to the Fade before the Veil was created.” Tam tried to follow her gaze, but it was as though she was looking past the walls to another world. “I have been to the bottom of the crevasse. It was . . . wonderful.” She pulled her legs up and set her forehead on her knees.

“Hey,” he moved forward and wrapped his arm around her, “don’t think that way. I need you here.”

Her head lifted slightly. “Really? You would have been free to do whatever you wanted without me. You could have gone anywhere. Why do you care about my fate so much?”

“You are the first person I’ve known who cares about me.” He closed his eyes and took her hands. “I haven’t known you for long, and yet you are the first to give me hope.” He looked up and opened his eyes. “Please, just . . . just don’t die, okay?”

A weak smile betrayed her emotions. “Okay.”

Clearing his throat, he continued, “Well, then. It’s nearly noontime, so let’s await Oghren’s awakening.”

“Noon? Already?”

“You were tired.”

“I was, wasn’t I?”


	47. Chapter 47

47

Replenish

“Oh, my head.” Oghren rubbed his forehead. He didn’t notice the elves standing next to his bed until nearly a minute had passed. “Wh-whoa. What? What are . . .” he massaged his temples. “What are two elves doing in my house? And don’t tell me I sleep walked into the Brecilian Forest again!”

Briala said, “Er, no. You’re in Orzammar. I’m Alyne’s daughter––”

“Wait! That wasn’t a dream last night? It was only for one night! I didn’t mean to make a kid!”

Tam suppressed a chuckle. Briala continued, “I’m here because we need help. Tam here needs lyrium, and we don’t know where else to go. You and my mother were once . . . friends.” Tam could no longer keep in the laughter. She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you have connections. We helped you get to your house last night after the bartender threw you out. If you can get him some lyrium, we’ll be out of your,” she eyed his stale beer-soaked beard, “hair.”

He sighed, sat up, and belched as loudly as a drake. Then he scratched his stomach. “Well,” he belched again, but it was not as loud, “I guess I can hook you up. There’s this guy I know. His name’s Tyrin, Tyrin Lanstyr. He owes me, and if his family is known for anything, it’s for paying off what they owe. Now, his family is pretty high in the castes, nearly as high as I am now, but Tyrin didn’t pay a debt, and his father shamed him so much he is now casteless. He’s working in the mines.”

“Are you in a state to do so now?” Tam asked.

“I will be if you hand me my beard flask.” He pointed to a table near the front door on which was a nug skin flask. Briala grabbed the flask and handed it to Oghren. He immediately uncapped it and took a long swig. “The best way,” he wiped his lips with the back of his hand, “to get over a hangover is to get drunk again.” He held up the flask as if saying “cheers.”

Tam said, “Ready now?”

Oghren nodded. “I’d like to say my family motto was that we always pay off the debts we owe, so I guess I’ll help you.” He grunted as he stood up. His full height was still shorter than Briala and about a foot shorter than Tam. Elves were generally petite and shorter than humans. “You stay here. I’ll talk to Tyrin.”

They awaited his arrival after his quaky departure.

. . .

“We need to check on him! Oghren has been gone for three hours!” Briala picked at her lengthening fingernails.

“He fought with your mother at the Final Battle. I’m sure he can handle himself.”

“I’m going after him.”

“What? Do you even know where the mines are?”

“I’ll just look for the signs.”

He rolled his eyes. “Orzammar is dangerous. Bandits roam the streets.”

“I can handle myself, especially if you come with me.”

Sighing, he replied, “Fine. But stay close.”

They left the home and closed the door behind them. Following the signs, they were careful not to attract unwanted attention by keeping their heads down and not speaking to anyone.

Briala’s ears pricked up at the sounds of an explosion and screams. “Help, strangers!” A female dwarf fleeing from the scene ahead pulled on Briala’s arm. “There’s been a cave collapse!” She coughed. “The miners are trapped!”

“What do you think we can do about a mine collapse?” Tam asked. “Do you suggest we lift the entire mountain?”

Briala shushed him. “We’ll do what we can.” She ran toward the cloud of continually billowing dust and shifting rocks. Cries and moans came from the rock. “Tam lift these rocks. I’ll get them out while you work your magic.”

“Raven––”

“Do it!”

Tam grabbed lyrium vials from a transporter and gulped them down. Blue mist swirled about him before he waved his hands. The rocks gradually flew into the air and hovered. Sweat rapidly gathered on his brow. “Hurry, Raven.” But his exhaustion wasn’t what made him rush her. He had heard something. Voices. The Circle had always warned mages that if they heard voices, they were to report immediately to the First Enchanter to be “dealt with.” Those mages always came back Tranquil. Yes, lifting the rocks of an entire cave ceiling was stretching his power, and stretching that power seemed to be linking him to the world of spirits more than he would have liked to. Possession was a severe problem for mages; a single wrong move, a single spell that was too difficult, and everything would be lost.

“Come on.” She helped her first miner out of the area. She ran back in and helped a second. His legs were both broken, and she had to drag him out. The rest were no better. They all had broken bones of some sort, except for a red-haired dwarf near the back––Oghren.

“Raven,” Tam struggled. The voices grew stronger. He could make out what they were saying:

“ _Come, Tamthorn. Give us a place to call home. Open your arms to us. Welcome your brethren_.”

“Ah!” He shut his eyes and dropped his hands, bringing them to his head in a vain attempt to shut them out.

Briala shouted with the five other dwarves in the cave. More dust billowed up from the rocks. Tam sank to his knees. “No! Please! Please don’t be . . .”

“We’re still in here!” Briala’s voice came from beyond the rocks. Tam looked up hopefully while trying to ignore the continuing voices.

“Raven?”

“Get some people over here and lift the rocks again!”

Tam shouted to the onlookers, “Come! Help!” They hesitated before joining the fray. Tam lifted the rocks again, swearing to himself that this time he wouldn’t let them fall, that he would bear the voices. The new helpers got the survivors out quickly, though there were some that had not survived two collapses. Briala helped Oghren out, and once everyone was out of the way, Tam let the rocks fall yet again. It seemed as though the voices were shouting beside his ears now, but he could still hear what was happening around him.

“I’m sorry,” Tam muttered when Briala came to him.

“It’s okay. The people who didn’t make it . . .” she looked back at the pile of rocks, “they wouldn’t have survived their injuries anyway.” She looked down at her hand. Mists of icy blue rose from her fingertips along with a sense of cold. “What color is my hair, the majority of it?”

“W-what?”

“My hair? What color is it?”

“Most of it is pale blond, but the bottom is darker.”

She smiled and leapt into his arms. “The amulet!” She pulled away and studied the pendant around her neck. “It _is_ working! My power is returning!”

His gaze drifted to her still-glowing fingertips. “Is that how you were able to stop the second collapse? You used the Fade magic slowly being transferred to you to create some sort of ice barrier?”

“Yes. You can’t see it now,” she swept her arm toward the rubble, “but I created an ice dome. It was amazing. I’ve never done anything like it before.”

Her smile made him beam. “I suppose knowing where your power comes from is giving you a stronger connection.”

“Okay, lovebirds. I’ll pay for a room for the two of you if it’ll get you to stop yapping.” Oghren stepped forward with his hands on his hips. Another dwarf stood close behind him with brown hair and a shorter beard. Blood trickled from a fresh cut streaking across his face diagonally and over his nose. “This,” Oghren clapped the lad on the back, “is Tyrin. After that rescue we both owe you. I’m sure you’re allowed to take as much lyrium as you need, right Tyrin?”

The young man nodded. “It’s not like I have much left to lose. Go ahead, make my bosses angry. Please.”

Oghren continued, “You saved my life. Now I need to save yours. How ‘bout I come with you to the surface, for old time’s sake?”

“What?” Tam stepped forward and held his hands out. “No. No. No. No, no, no, no. Please. _No._ ”

She smiled at Tam. “I know where we should go next––pay a visit to an old friend. You can come too, Oghren.”

“Good. It’s not like there’s anything here that’s fun to do in Orzammar.”

Tam crossed his arms. “I’ll never understand why you’re bringing him along. Wait, where are we going again?”

She again seemed to look into the distance beyond the walls of the cave. “ _Terasyl’an Tel’as_ ––Skyhold.

As they began walking away, Tam heard the most beautiful and haunting sound that had ever graced his ears. He turned around and looked back at the collapsed rocks. Hidden in the pile was a crystal the size of his thumb pulsing to the rhythm of his heart. He knelt beside the red crystal and studied its splendor. The song became louder at his touch. The red light emitting from it reflected in his eyes. Lightning-like stands of energy whirled and zipped around it, but it did not hurt when he took it in the palm of his hand. Rather, he felt more power than he ever had, even when he had discovered he was a mage. Tearing cloth from the bottom hem of his robes, he gingerly set the crystal in the cloth and rolled it. The light was dimmed but not the song, therefore keeping it hidden from those who would steal it, he thought. He squinted suspiciously at the dwarves around him he assumed would try to steal his precious gem. He dropped the crystal in his pocket and relished the sweet sound. He breathed deeply and smiled widely, patted the crystal now hidden away, and followed after Briala with a slight spring in his step.


	48. Chapter 48

48

Trepidation

“Let’s rest here for the night.” Tam pressed his forefingers to his temples. The shouting in his mind was giving him a headache. Even the soothing song of the gem in his pocket did little to override the cacophony in his head.

“Sure.” Oghren threw his belongings on the ground and took a swig from his beard flask.

Briala asked him while rolling out a blanket Oghren had let her take from his home, “How do you have any left in there?” She nodded her head at his flask.

He held it up. “Oh, this?” He chuckled. “I had Wynne enchant it so it never runs out.”

She rolled her eyes. “How convenient,” she muttered. “Who is this ‘Wynne’?”

He smiled and stared off at the setting sun before blinking rapidly and wiping his watering eyes. “Whew! That sun of yours is brighter than lava, I’ll tell ya that! I can never get used to it. Oh. You asked about Wynne? She was a sweet old lady, a mage, who traveled with us to stop the Fifth Blight. I wonder where she is now . . .”

Briala settled down in her blankets and looked over to Tam. Her eyes immediately widened. He was shaking terribly. “No,” he muttered. “No! Stop! I . . . won’t! Can’t . . . take . . . me!” Her blankets flew when she dashed to his side.

“Tam!” She was hesitant to lay hands on him, unknowing of what it might do to his dream or . . . whatever this was. Oghren was at her side a second later. “What’s happening?” Tam arched his back, then went limp. His brow was drenched in sweat, but heat radiated off him.

Oghren exclaimed, “Dwarves can’t be mages! How am I supposed to know?”

“We need to get him to Skyhold as fast as we can! Grab your belongings. I’ll carry him.” Briala surprisingly lifted him in her arms without difficulty. Oghren gathered the blankets and the bags he had previously thrust down and followed after her.

Oghren asked, “How far away is Skyhold from here?”

“A few hours,” she replied breathlessly. “Taking the Imperial Highway should help to shorten that, but you should keep your eyes peeled for bandits.”

They walked for a few hours occasionally switching between holding Tam and the supplies. Arriving at Skyhold without incident, Oghren marveled at the Skyhold’s stonework. Briala marched in without a second glance.

Of course, the guards didn’t make their journey easier.

“State your name and your business in Skyhold.” The first guard standing beside the portcullis commanded.

Briala sighed. “I’m that half-elf that was brought here. The one Varric Tethras mentored? I had a red lyrium arrow. Look, my friend here needs help. I’ve been here before. The Inquisitor knows me.”

The first guard exchanged a silent question with the second, then said, “You may proceed.” He gestured for the second guard to raise the portcullis. The second pulled a lever, and the gate immediately lifted on its own. Briala sped through the now open entry and rushed to the tavern.

“Tavern? You’re not me, kid.”

“Don’t call me ‘kid,’” she snapped. Still, he opened the door for her. She hoped the woman she was looking for would be in the tavern at this time.

She was not disappointed.

“Dalish!” Briala ran to the far corner of the tavern and set Tam down on an especially long table. The other patrons seemed to mind.

Dalish stood up. “What are you doing here? And who is this? What is going on?”

“This is Tam. He’s a mage from the Circle of Magi. We had just left Orzammar when he went to rest. He was shaking and then just stopped. He’s been breathing, but I’m not sure what’s wrong with him. You’re the only mage I trust.”

Dalish bent down to inspect him. “He seems to be . . . sleeping, though magic is stirring around him, in him. He is fighting, da’len. I believe . . .” she closed her eyes and seemed to listen for a moment, “Yes, I believe he is a Dreamer.”

“A Dreamer?”

“Somniaris, or Dreamers, are rare these days. Very rare. They can enter the Fade when they wish, changing it into different forms according to their desires. Dreamers can even enter the dreams of others and interact with those in them. However, Dreamers are more vulnerable to possession than most mages, which is what I fear your Tam is experiencing right now.”

“Tam is . . .” Briala looked down at his ashen and perspiring face, “possessed? Is there any way to help him?”

Dalish remained silent.

“Tell me!”

Sighing, she explained, “Before I left the clan, Keeper Hawen told me of a ritual to enter the Fade.” She held out her hands as if to halt her thought process. “But we’re not doing it.”

“If it’ll help Tam––”

“How long have you known this boy?”

“A . . . a day.”

“And you are willing to risk yourself for him so readily?” She lifted her eyebrows as if reading Briala’s mind.

“It doesn’t matter how long I’ve known him! He saved my life. I owe him.”

Dalish spoke softly. “Da’len. We owe many people in our lives, but we repay few and little. This may be one of those instances.” She moved to set her hand on Briala’s shoulder, but the young elf shoved it away.

“I came here because I trusted you! Tam is not only my friend; he is one of our own! If we elves cannot save our people, what chance do we have of saving our culture?”

Dalish looked down at her hands in her lap. “I suppose,” she spoke slowly, “I will do it. Follow me.” She pushed away her chair and walked out of the tavern with Briala and Oghren––the latter was now carrying Tam––following close behind. She walked to the northern end and entered through the kitchens. Rounding a bend, she turned into the cobwebby room of the library. “No one should see us here. Dwarf,” Oghren’s head snapped up, “you need to watch her. You are immune to many magics, so you will be the only one who can help if something goes wrong. I’ll be continuing the connection.”

“I don’t like this,” he grumbled. “Heard too many stories about the sodding Fade.” He set Tam down by Briala.

Briala stood in front of Dalish who then said, “You may want to take a seat for this. You will be unfeeling of your physical body, as your subconsciousness will take complete control.” Briala positioned herself against the wall, uncaring of the spiderwebs. Meanwhile, Dalish selected several vials of lyrium from a bookshelf, typically used for finding rune writing in select books.

“Ready.”

Dalish knelt down. “Know this: Tam may not be able to be saved. You need to accept that. If he is incurable, then you must kill him, or he will become an Abomination.”

“Kill him?”

“Only in the Fade, which will render him Tranquil when he awakes. It is better than the life of horror being an Abomination would cause. Also, know that the Fade is not reality.”

“Of course, I know that.”

“The Fade has a way of distorting the line between reality and illusions, desires. Demons lurk to take advantage of that distortion. Do not believe what you see.”

“Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

“Be careful,” Dalish reminded her. Briala nodded. Dalish spoke softly, laying a hand on Briala’s and Tam’s foreheads for a few moments. Briala’s eyes closed, and Dalish removed her hand. “Now we wait.”


	49. Chapter 49

49

Mindful

Briala opened her eyes. Everything was . . . misty. Strange. She couldn’t quite think straight. Voices would occasionally whisper or giggle.

“Play with me!”

“My love?”

“Mummy?”

“Come, my child.”

She already wanted to leave. She took a few steps forward. She seemed to be in a castle. No, she realized suddenly. It was the Kinloch Hold Circle Tower. She continued on. Her mind told her to not look at the dozens of dead mages and templars in the front entry, but her gaze drifted to them, their corpses twisted but looking as though they had been killed instantly. The tower was silent, the quietest she had ever heard it. Something drove her to the dungeons, an instinct, a desire, she would never know. She heard weeping. “Tam?” she called. “Tam?” She made it down the steps, first passing two dead templar guards. The first elven prisoners in cells she saw after the flight of stairs were dead, as were the rest, she noted. Tam was huddled over a body. She had to sidestep to see who it was. In the dim light from the sparse torches, Briala saw that the deceased had pale blond hair. It was a female. She sidestepped again. The vallaslin represented Dirthamen on the fragile, pale face. The brown eyes were open, staring emptily at the dripping, cracked ceiling of the dungeon. A cloak of raven feathers was spread underneath her. Briala needn’t study the corpse any longer. The identity was obvious. Her breath caught in her throat. She was looking at her own dead body.

She stepped toward Tam whose weeping continued.

“I’m . . . so sorry,” he mumbled. He ran his fingers through the pale hair, the color of which now matched her skin. Cradling her limp neck, he lifted her to his chest as if he could somehow transfer his heartbeat to hers.

“Tam,” the living Briala said. She tried to set a hand on his shoulder, but it drifted through as though through mist. He didn’t notice.

A malevolent voice came, echoing off the moist walls. “ _Ah. Here is our second visitor._ ” The speech was wispy and reminded Briala of––No. She wouldn’t allow it to enter her mind. “ _What is it you are afraid of? Spiders? Death?_ ” The voice paused as if searching her mind. She knew it likely was and tried to block it again. “ _Ah._ ” It inhaled yet again like it was smelling a freshly-baked pie. “ _I know what you are afraid of._ ” She could sense a sort of smile coming from the speaker. “ _Life. You are afraid of life. How . . . strange. Beautiful. You are beautiful while you’re are alive and dead,_ ” Now she could sense a sneer. “ _child._ ”

“Don’t call me that!” she snapped again. Tam still didn’t hear her.

The speaker went on. Its voice scuttled like centipede legs. It clicked unnaturally on certain syllables. The voice whispered and echoed and screamed, somehow all at the same time. She thought she could feel the words solidifying around her and skittering along her arms and legs. A feeling of wrongness enveloped each word. She unconsciously itched at her skin. “ _Anger is not my specialty. Fear is . . . known, whether it is to your waking mind or the one that enters the Fade while you dream. You try to avoid fear as most do, though it is difficult for you. You face fear every day. You build yourself to be strong, mighty, like Lanahris, Hawke, Morrigan, Kieran._ ” She sensed its gaze drift to the side were Tam was. “ _And him. Tamthorn. Just Tamthorn. No history. No surname. Just a servant from Redcliffe castle here with a beautiful,_ living _girl._ ” She sensed yet another smile. “ _Let’s see how strong you are without them beside you._ ”

Her hair began to float in a white, blinding light of which Tam remained unaware. The light subsided, and she found herself at the crevasse. It was the same scene she had witnessed unfold in her dream. She smiled cunningly. “I’ve already been here and done this,” she declared to the air. She sensed a frown. The scenery changed into the blinding light, then to the library she had left minutes ago.

She began, “Wha––”

“Briala!” Dalish rushed to her side. “Are you all right? What happened in there?”

“I-I’m not sure.” Briala massaged her temples. Her head still felt fuzzy. Her gaze was drawn to where Tam previously lay and now sat. “Tam!” Briala moved toward him, but Dalish stopped her. She had a forlorn look in her eyes.

“He’s . . . he’s not the same. Just know that.” Dalish allowed Briala to precede, though she did so more slowly now.

“Tam?” she asked more quietly. He blinked. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Answer me!”

“I have answered you, Briala.” His voice was monotonous, his eyes dull. No expressions showed on his face.

“Tam, oh.” She closed her eyes and felt as if a dragon had landed on her. She doubled over and let her head fall in her hands. He had called her Briala, not Raven.

“Tam, I’m . . .”

“Is there something I can do to help? Am I distressing you?”

She simply shook her head. She came back up with tearstains on her cheeks running over her tattoos. “Ir abelas,” she murmured.

She sensed grinning.

Her eyes shot open and searched wildly for the invisible invader. It stopped smiling. “ _How?_ ” it whimpered.

She stood, balling her fists.

“Briala, what are you doing?” Dalish stood and grabbed Briala’s shoulder. Oghren did the same, followed by Tam.

“What are you doing?” They asked in sync. Their eyes rapidly grew dull. Their skin paled. The scene faded back to the dungeon. Tam was still sobbing over the corpse.

“Tam!” she shouted. She ran in front of him. “Tam! Listen! This isn’t real! You have to wake up!”

A chuckle seemed to emanate from the walls. “ _Ah,_ ” it breathed hideously again, “ _Briala, you still don’t understand. You are not a Dreamer as he is. You cannot interfere with him._ ”

Her eyebrows lifted as an idea struck her. “I can’t interfere with him,” she whispered, “but I can interfere with what he sees.” She tested her theory by trying to lift her own corpse, as strange as it was. Her hands passed through that too. _Just as well,_ she thought. _That probably wasn’t a good idea anyway._ Pondering for a moment, another idea reached her mind. She reached for the necklace around her corpse’s neck. The chain caught beneath her fingers, and she pulled at it delicately. She lifted the necklace from the corpse––the Fade amulet Tam seemed to be so interested in––and settled it around his neck. His eyes widened before touching the necklace with astonishment. The walls began to crack. He looked up, and fear struck once more. Briala tugged on the necklace, making him think it was leading him somewhere. He followed. She brought him, gradually, up the steps, past the dead templars and mages, and to the front doors. She opened them for him. Outside was simply white light. He stepped back in shock and seemed to realize what this all was––an illusion. He closed his eyes, touching the amulet, and smiled. A bright light ensued, and Briala thought she saw him beam directly at her before it faded.

Barren land which seemed to be somewhere near the crevasse replaced the white light. A demon stood nearly fifty yards away, but Briala noticed Tam first who was standing beside her. His eyes watered, but the grin from a moment before remained on his face. He took her hand and shouted across the land, “You are not welcome in my mind. You will not have me!”

The response rumbled, though the wispy, echoey quality remained. “ _I will have you, Dreamer, even if I truly have to kill this girl beside you._ ” It extended a claw-like finger toward Briala. She spat.

“You will neither take him nor kill me this day.”

Tam closed his eyes. A second later a sword appeared on Briala’s back and daggers on her thighs. His eyes opened, and he smiled at her. “As it said, I am a Dreamer. I can control the Fade. This fear demon stands no chance.”

“Still,” she smiled back, “I hope it puts up enough of a fight so I can slice it to shreds.” She gestured at the creature with its spidery appendages extending from its back in addition to its arms and legs dressed in tattered robes. It tossed its elongated head, and the two elves charged. The ground beneath the demon gaped open and swallowed the creature before it dug itself out with the spider legs. Briala sliced at the arms with her daggers once she reached it, severing two and severely injuring three more. Only one appendage remained uninjured. With amazing speed, she changed to her sword just as the ground grew up into spikes, one of which impaled the creature. It shrieked. Briala dropped her sword and covered her ears. She looked back at Tam. He was on the ground, unmoving. Ignoring the pain of the sound, she pumped her arms, running to him as fast as she could. Her knees skidded against the sandy, rough ground when she landed at his side.

“Tam,” she ran a calloused hand against his cheek. He coughed once and blinked his eyes open.

The shrieking stopped, replaced by the voice once more. “ _You may have escaped me, but I can sense the corruption in you. We all can. You will not be safe for long. The Red will claim you, and we will feed on the fear you create in your reign._ ”

A bright light consumed them. Briala set her head on his chest and closed her eyes during the change of scenery.

The woodiness of the books in the library greeted her along with dust and surprised shouts. “Briala!” Dalish rushed to her side. “Are you all right? What happened in there?”

Briala smiled, sighed, and opened her eyes, immediately searching for Tam. He awoke near her. She leapt on him without answering Dalish and planted one on his cheek. His eyes widened tremendously. Her smile remained when she pulled away.

“Well,” Oghren remarked, “I guess it worked.”

Tam wrapped his arms around Briala. “ _Ma melava halani_ ,” he whispered in her ear.

“‘You helped me,’” she translated. “How did you––”

“You pick up a thing or two in the Fade.” He smirked.

Oghren began in a singsong voice, “Tam and Bri-ala sit-tin’ in the caves, K-I-S-S-I––”

Dalish shot him an annoyed look. “That’s enough.” She watched the other two elves wistfully. “Let them have their fun.”


	50. Chapter 50

50

Farewells

“I believe,” Tam began, fingering the Inquisition-sealed letter in his hands, “it would be for the best that I return to the Circle.” Briala continued to stare out the window with her feet perched on the sill. “I . . . I hate to go but,” he sighed, “I have to do this. After that,” he waved his hands making a gesture to the experience in the Fade, “I need more training. I can’t let that happen again. I can’t put you in harm’s way anymore.” He shook the letter, though Briala couldn’t see it from her position. “The Inquisitor wrote a letter to the First Enchanter requesting I be allowed to continue my training. Maybe . . . maybe in a while we can get back together, and then we can . . . I don’t know . . .” He trailed off. Briala jumped off the sill and onto the floor where she turned around.

“I understand you have to do this. I’m not angry at you. I suppose I’ll miss you. Even after only a day I’m so . . . I don’t know . . . used to you? No. That doesn’t sound right.” She bit her lip. “Maybe it’s better if we don’t speak.” She moved to embrace him while he puckered his lips. It resulted in an odd-looking collision.

“Um.” He backed up and scratched the back of his head.

“What are you doing?”

“I thought we were . . . I mean, we did it in the library.” He fingered the wax seal on the letter bearing a blazing eye.

“That was on the cheek.” She shook her head and closed her eyes. “I like you, Tam, but I’m not going to kiss you on the lips after knowing you for only a, what, day and a half now, actually?” He nodded and let her embrace him instead. She pulled away seconds later. “There. That was better. A year, Tam? Should that be long enough to finish your training?”

He nodded again. “Yes, that should be plenty.”

“A year then, and we’ll see each other.”

“Goodbye, Raven.”

“Dareth shiral, Tam.”


	51. Chapter 51

51

Reunification

**One year later (Past)**

Briala watched the unmoving Circle Tower while Oghren paddled the rowboat.

 _One year,_ she thought. So much had changed for her in one year. She had traveled through much of Thedas with Oghren, but it was only because he insisted. Repeatedly. She had even journeyed with Hawke for a bit who would come to the Circle Tower after she met with Varric in Hightown and a man named Fenris. Hawke had also spent some much needed time with her husband, Anders.

Briala had tried to work for the Orlesian man she owed for riding in his ship over a year ago, but he paid her instead to leave and to “never show her elven ears near his home again.” Her hair was now completely blond, and her Elvhen magic nearly back to normal.

Briala offered her sword for pay in her travels to fight monsters which offered a pleasant reimbursement with how many darkspawn were emerging, along with dragons, wyverns, and demons from places in which the Veil was thin. However, not all of her change had been pleasant. The elves who had gone into secrecy had begun to emerge, staging various rebellions in alienages and even promoting battles wherever clans met humans in the Dales. Because of this, racism toward elves became more common. Slurs were often thrown at Briala purely for her parentage. Even after killing a monster terrorizing their town, the hirer would withhold her pay. Oftentimes she would try to ignore it, but she couldn’t forever, not when the honor of her people was at stake.

It was now widely known that Solas had been defeated, but only a few, including Briala due to her friends being in close contact with the Inquisitor, knew that Lanahris was Tranquil at the time. She had only killed him because her Tranquility made her choose the logical action: defeat the threat of Solas. The emotional part of her, though, that had been eliminated by the Tranquility was somehow reignited. She instantly regretted her decision. She mourned until the funeral which she could not bear to continue to watch. She left the funeral and Skyhold, going on some mission no one knew the objective of. The advisors of the Inquisition––Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine––were currently in charge of the organization until they could find someone suitable. Hawke had been approached by former Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast about becoming the Inquisition. She declined. Strongly. Briala had heard rumors of the Hero of Ferelden being asked by the Inquisition’s spymaster, Leliana, about taking up the mantle. If that was true, nothing had come of it. Furthermore, Solas’s funeral was exceedingly controversial among humans and led to even more tension between them and elves.

With all this, Briala hoped Tam had not changed as much as she had. However, he had visited her in her dreams, ending her nightmares and speaking to her in a scenic spot in the Fade he would create. Six months into the messaging, he had stopped contacting her. She noticed near the end he had seemed anxious, choleric, and impatient. She saw an occasional flicker of red light emanating from his chest the last few times she saw him. She remembered few of her dreams, but she could always remember that she awoke with a smile. That was before he changed, before she saw the red light glowing under his shirt. A part of her told her to turn back, that this was a horrible idea. She had a theory regarding why he had changed. Each time it came, she shoved it into a cobwebbed corner of her mind. She could not bear to think of red lyrium ruining yet another aspect of her life.

The tower loomed, as ever, impressive over Lake Calenhad and the docks. The midday sun beat down on Briala’s skin, though she did not notice. She simply pondered the changes that could have occurred in Tam––longer or shorter hair? Longer legs? Deeper voice?

 _Red lyrium addition_ , her mind whispered.

 _No. Not Tam_ , she tried to reassure herself. _That’s ridiculous. Where would he even get it?_

Even so, the doubt lingered.

Oghren moored the boat in the cave entrance, and the two of them entered the tower. Briala hoped hatred of elves hadn’t passed to the Circle. She had traveled a long way for this, and to have admittance denied for the shape of her ears would be maddening.

“I am Oghren, the Hero of Orzammar,” Oghren explained to the templar guards. “We’re here to see Tamthorn of Redcliffe.”

The templars opened the gate without exchanging a word. Briala stepped into the familiar room and scanned for him. After a moment she found him instructing two other mages in firing at a dummy. He looked taller and older. His hair was covered by a cowl. His posture was more commanding. Briala thought he was even more handsome than when he had visited her dreams.

She sauntered through the center of the hall, inspecting the other mages as she did so. There were many more than before, and they all seemed better trained. The dummies were riddled with scorch marks, blue ice, and small, purple sparks of lightning. A few were disintegrated entirely. Then she noticed a peculiar sort of point on each side of the dummies’ heads. She squinted her eyes and stopped walking when in horror she realized they were elf ears. Each ear appeared to be authentic. Oghren hadn’t seemed to notice yet. There were only about a half dozen mages in the hall, nowhere close to the entire tower’s population of them. She forced herself forward, trembling slightly and forcing herself to have tunnel vision. “Tam?”

He turned around. His initial expression indicated vexation, but it changed to a smile when he saw it was her. “Raven!” He threw his arms around her and kissed her welcomingly on the cheek. The mage cowl covering his ears brushed against her cheek.

“So, what’s new?”

He gestured to the mages behind him. “These are my apprentices. I’m a full-fledged mage of the Circle now.”

“That means . . .” she pointed at him. “You went through the Harrowing?”

He smiled distantly. “Yes. I . . . would rather not speak of it. Come. Let me give you a tour of the tower. At least let us make it better than last time.” He laughed, though it sounded forced. It wasn’t that of a Tranquil, but it was close.

“Yes,” she answered while watching him with concern.

“You may go. Enjoy the rest of your day.” Tam waved his apprentices away. She walked beside him as she nervously observed Oghren wave goodbye. “We’ll have fun,” he assured her. Tam took her hand roughly and whispered in her ear. “I’ve missed you.”

Her heart beat faster. She attempted to wrench her hand from his, but he held on tightly. “Let go. Tam. Tam! Let go! You’re hurting me!” Briala looked back again, but Oghren was now gone. The main doors slammed shut. “Tam!” She stopped walking and pulled against his arm. A chill spread from his fingers to hers and numbed her hand, but she continued to pull. “Let go! Let _go_ of me!” The sounds of practice ceased from the mages in the hall, and their eyes turned to her. Their faces were expressionless. In the silence she could hear pounding on other doors in the hall and shouts, cries of “Stop!” and “Let us out!” So, the other mages had not gone along with whatever Tam was planning. He had put a ward on the door, preventing them from disturbing him.

Her heart now thrummed against her ribs. Her hand hurt. She needed to leave. _Now_. But she couldn’t unless she cut off her own hand; his grip was so strong. “What is wrong with you?” She tried to dig her heels into the cracks between the tiles, but they were worn too smooth.

Tam smiled that eerie smile and spoke calmly. “Raven, my beautiful Dalish elf, you are naïve. You know not that the Circle is against your kind.”

“My kind? You’re also an elf!”

His grin remained. He lifted his cowl off his head, revealing two stubs where his glorious elven ears used to reside. Briala’s breath caught in her throat. “I am not an elf. I am a mage of the Circle of Magi, and as a mage of the Circle, I am bound to execute any and all elves brought to our front door.” His eyes were wide with horrific glee. He pulled from beneath his robes a necklace filled with pulsating red liquid. He uncorked the miniature bottle and held it up to his lips. He closed his eyes and licked his lips after he drank it, relishing the taste. That was the glow beneath his shirt in the dreams. That was why he had changed. Her trepidation was proven accurate. Red lyrium. Again, it had ruined the life of someone she loved. She swore as tears gathered in her eyes. Her tongue could not form any words. Instead she nearly unconsciously allowed herself to be dragged to an upright rectangular shape near the end of the hall. Tam lifted the black cloth from it to reveal a table built with straps to restrain the arms, legs, waist, and head of a person. Its crude design made it that much more appalling. Shallow trenches set in the headrest of it arranged in the shape of the Circle’s emblem retained dried blood. “Tam!” she shrieked. He shoved her on the table, and other mages helped him buckle her in. The mages removed her sword and daggers. Her chest hurt from the straps that were now too tight. “Please! Don’t do this! I know you! You would never––”

He leaned in her face and sneered. “You only knew me for a day, two days at most! You’re a fool to think I loved you after that day.”

“But the dreams––”

“Never mind the dreams! The song is all I need. It is everything. The song will consume all. The Red will sing everywhere.” He turned to his compatriots. “Death to the elves!” He shouted, pumping his fist in the air. Blue sparks flew from his hand. The scores of mages repeated the action with variously colored sparks also rising from their fists.

“Death to the elves! Death to the elves! Death to the elves!”

She closed her eyes, wishing she could close her ears too. Tam seemed to notice, for he signaled the mages to quiet and whispered in her ear, “Oh, you don’t like hearing that, do you? Don’t worry. Soon enough you’ll be able to keep out the sound by plugging your holes with your ears.” He drew a knife from his robes.

“Do these people know they are following an elf?” Her voice rose in hopes to lead the mages to a coup.

Tam was not perturbed. “No, because they are not following an elf. I killed an elf. His name,” he smirked again and whispered in her ear, “was Tamthorn.” He backed away and spoke loudly. “The day an elf loses his ears, he is no longer an elf! I was not an elf when I killed the First Enchanter.” He chuckled to himself. “Does anyone out there,” his hand swept toward the doors, “even know the First Enchanter is dead? Eh. Doesn’t matter.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now, let us gather a few more knives.” He lowered his knife to her “knife-ears” and began to cut away at her right. She bit her lips and forced herself not to scream. Her teeth soon dug into the soft flesh of her lip, and it bled. The doors burst open. A sword pierced the stomach of the first mage indoors. The second’s head was cleanly removed and distracted the third long enough for her arm to be sliced off. The fourth was sliced open. Briala squeezed her eyes shut. Cries of pain echoed through the hall. The mages were not able to get to their staves in the throng, and the slaughter continued. Once there was enough space for Tam to attack without hitting one of his own, he raised his hand and shot a meager bolt of lightning at the intruder. The attacker dodged it and ran toward him with her sword out to the side to eviscerate anyone who ventured too close. Briala then began to notice from the sounds that someone else had joined the fray, likely on the attacker’s side. She opened her eyes a bit. The first attacker was now fighting Tam, or, more accurately, dodging his attacks of ice, fire, and electricity. Tam was running out of mana, Briala could tell. The attacker then rushed him. She brought her sword in a horizontal arc near his face. He leaped back, but the edge of the blade swept across his cheeks and nose, matching the same sort of red line painted across the attacker’s nose, who, Briala could now see, was Hawke. Tam’s fingers touched his cheek, and he grimaced. “Damn you, woman,” he grunted before firing three more elemental beams at Hawke who dodged every one.

“If anyone’s damned,” Hawke grumbled, “it’s you.” She unexpectedly leapt forward with her sword poised under her armpit. Tam’s eyes enlarged a split-second before the blade slide through his chest. His hands remained suspended perpendicular to his body.

“Ra-ven . . . W-why?” He was dead before he heard the response, but Hawke said it anyway.

“Because you hurt the woman who loved you.” She removed the sword with a disgusted look remaining on her face. Oghren finished off the few remaining mages. Hawke stepped to Briala and unbuckled the straps with sympathy in her eyes. As soon as she was free, she immediately leapt up and embraced Hawke, burying her face in the space between Hawke’s neck and shoulder. Hawke’s short black hair brushed against Briala’s in contrast. “I’m so sorry this happened.” Briala didn’t speak and didn’t have to. Oghren made his way to Hawke and Briala.

“Hey, kid, are you––”’

Hawke held up a hand to silence him without looking up. Briala finally released herself, stood, and looked down at Tam’s corpse. “He made a Mistake,” she whispered to herself.

Meanwhile, Hawke knelt to study the necklace around Tam’s neck. “Red lyrium potion,” she muttered distastefully.

Briala likewise leaned down, examined Tam’s bloodied face, and frowned. “Let’s go.” She grabbed her stolen weapons and left without a second glance.


	52. Chapter 52

52

Constellations

While Hawke poked at the fire, Briala asked, “What do you think changed him? I know you didn’t know him before today, but Tam would never––”

“Stop talking. Listen to me. From what you’ve told me, you only knew him for a day or two. Maybe he was that way all along.”

Briala shook her head while watching the flames dance. “He didn’t act like that before. I think it might have been the Harrowing, that ritual mages in the Circle go through. Maybe somehow it––”

“The Harrowing doesn’t change people like that. My sister, Bethany, she went through the Harrowing and left nearly the same as when she went in. It had to have been something do to with that red lyrium potion around his neck. Red lyrium drives people insane, even in small quantities just by being near it. That potion looked to be pure lyrium, which no doubt irreversibly altered his personality. He must have had it for a while.” Hawke sighed. “Red lyrium has taken so much from Thedas. I wish I could punch it like all my other problems to make it go away.”

Briala bit her lip and tried not to think about how much she had thought of him the past year. “I remember thinking we were friends. That maybe, once he was finished with his training, we could travel together. I remember when we escaped the Circle Tower and came to Oghren’s home in Orzammar. I went to sleep, and I had a nightmare. He hummed a song to me. A Dalish song. I don’t know how he knew it, but it was a song my mother would sing to me.” Briala smiled faintly, though sorrowfully. She translated,

_“‘Goodnight, my love, for it is time._

_May your dark wings flutter into the starry Skies._

_Your soft feathers are my sole comfort._

_Fly, my raven, this night, and return to me in the Morn._

_May your mind soar in the constellations._

_And may you return to me, my raven of nightly Heaven’s skies._

_You are a melody of mystifying beauty flapping In the dark cloak of the sky._

_Fly, my raven, this night, and return to me in the Morn._

_You are dear to me, my raven._

_You send me love and joy._

_Deliver to me newfound feeling, for without you I am nothing._

_Fly, my raven, this night, and return to me in the Morn._

_Your voice is a song._

_Yes, my raven, I will be here when you awake._

_Our love shall be as endless as the moon._

_Fly, my raven, this night, and return to me in the Morn._

_May your heart find its way back to me from the Beyond and from the heavens yonder._

_I shalt not let you leave me, not now, not in_

_Forever._

_We are eternal._

_Neither monsters, nor dragons, nor demons, nor Death can separate us._

_Remember me, for I shall never forget you._

_Fly, my raven, this night, and return to me in the Morn.’”_

“It sounds much better in Elven. In my mother’s voice. And in . . . and in his voice.” She struggled with retraining her tears. Hawke remained silent. The reflection of the fire could be easily seen in Briala’s dark eyes. “I heard him hum it,” Briala spoke shakily, “He knew the song. He called me his ‘Raven.’ And I fell for it.” She shook her head in disappointment. “Red lyrium has taken _everything_ from me. I was _stupid_ to fall for him. _Love_ is stupid. I’ve . . . lost everyone. I . . . just wan-ted to be . . .” She broke down and sobbed into her hands. Hawke moved over and wrapped an arm around her. The bandages on Briala’s ear brushed against Hawke’s short hair.

“It’s okay,” Hawke whispered into Briala’s hair. Her glistening eyes similarly reflected the haunting beauty of the flames. “He can’t hurt you now.”


	53. Chapter 53

53

Recurrence

**Several Months Later (Past)**

“I just killed that den of drakes, and this is all I get?” Briala threw the meager handful of bronze coins on the floor. “I risked my life for your town!”

“That’s what you get, knife-ears. Get lost before I make you.” The mayor crossed his arms over his chest. A frown split his plump face.

“Those drakes didn’t kill me! What makes you think I’ll leave this town without my gold?”

“Who said anything about gold? I said I’d pay ya, that’s it.” He kicked the coins toward her.

“Briala . . .” Oghren voiced behind her.

“Quiet, Oghren. All right. Let’s go. The only thing worse than this town is the scat of those drakes I killed for them. You’re welcome, oh humble and generous mayor.” She bowed sarcastically and stormed off. “Three towns in a row, Oghren,” she complained to her friend. “Three towns in a row and no pay for saving their arses.”

“Well, at least that mayor offered some coin.”

“Oghren, do dwarves get criticized for being short and living underground?”

“Sure we do, but definitely not as much as I’ve seen happen to you elves.”

“Exactly. You must understand that even when I am offered coin for my services, I can’t accept it. Not like that. Not when it is simply to not be arrested or thrown out of office for backing out of a deal. That mayor paid me only to keep his position, and if I took those coins, it would have marred my honor.”

“Phw. Honor.” He spat on the dirt road. “That’s gonna be the death of you––” Oghren whipped his head a few seconds after Briala when a horse and rider came bolting down the road. The horse had slowed to a walk when it approached Briala and Oghren.

“Salutations, fellow travel––” The rider knelt down and squinted at Briala and then immediately forced his bay to step back. “You!” He pointed an accusing finger. She saw the Grey Warden emblem on his chest plate and his distinctive mustache and groaned.

“What?” Oghren looked between the two of them.

“I, er, stole his horse after I was killed.” Briala’s fingers gripped the hilt of the sword on her back as a warning and precaution.

“ _What?_ ” He was even more confused.

“You,” the Grey Warden pronounced to Briala, “are under arrest for thievery.”

Briala scoffed, “Good luck with that.”

The Grey Warden leaped off his horse and drew his sword. He advanced toward her deliberately. “Come peacefully, knife-ears, and I won’t have to hurt you.”

“You already did!” She growled and lunged at him in anger. He leaned back to avoid her blade, then spun and attacked in a horizontal swing. She ducked below his sword and thrust the point of her weapon at his crotch. In surprise and fear he rapidly brought his blade down on hers forcing its tip into the dirt. She growled again and swung her steel vertically as if to slice him as she had the man in Lothering. He leapt back agilely and feinted to the right causing Briala to move to parry. He then sidestepped to the left and thrusted his blade forward. Caught off-guard, she received a blade at the edge of her abdomen as a penalty. Oghren, who had previously been unable to jump into the lithe fight with his unwieldy axe, shouted in surprise and rushed to her aid. She swung her sword where the Warden had been a moment ago. He was now behind her, and he kicked her into the dirt where she lay clutching her wound. She rolled over onto her back, covered with dust, and grunted painfully.

The Warden smirked. “ _Now_ you are under arrest.” Oghren began to pull out his axe to challenge the heavily armored man. “I wouldn’t try that if I were you. You are innocent. For now.”

Oghren reluctantly let his axe slide back in the holder and helped Briala up with her arm over his shoulder and the other clutching her wound. “I’m sure thievery doesn’t deserve the penalty of death,” Oghren spoke in an even yet agitated voice. “How ‘bout you get her to Ostagar––That’s near here, right? ––and get her some help.”

The Warden complied by slinging Briala roughly over his horse and beginning the short journey to Ostagar. Oghren tagged along beside the horse.

“When you stole my horse,” the Warden commented, “I traveled for days without food and only water from your Dalish-polluted streams.” Briala groaned in response. “I was nearly mad with hunger when I reached the next city.”

“I didn’t know Grey Wardens couldn’t hunt,” Oghren remarked lightly.

The Warden pulled his sword a half-foot out of its sheath. “Watch it, dwarf.”

“Name’s Oghren. No sensible dwarf calls their kid ‘Dwarf.’” He chuckled.

The Warden dropped his sword in the sheath in frustration and shook his head. “No more talking until we get to Ostagar.”

They remained silent.


	54. Chapter 54

54

Maternal

“Wound’s dressed. Should heal soon, but don’t swordplay for at least three weeks.” The medic stepped away to show her work was done.

“Thank you,” Briala replied. She slid her shirt back on and left the tent into the courtyard of Ostagar where the Wardens guarding her tent immediately seized her arms and dragged her off to the gibbets where she was mercilessly thrust in. The metal door was slammed behind her. The other two cells beside her were empty. She wasn’t sure to think of this as good or bad. She sighed and sat down. This might take a while.

She was wrong.

A Grey Warden came striding toward her cell, meanwhile shouting at the guards angrily. That voice. She would know it anywhere.

The Grey Warden lifted her winged helmet off her head and tossed back a white ponytail.

Briala stood and waved, though the white-haired elf was already near enough to her cage there was no doubt she was going anywhere else. She smiled wearily, although the smile lines lightened her face. Despite the gray hair and beginnings of wrinkles, the woman was only about forty years old. Her duties to Thedas––Ferelden especially––and the blight sickness that plagued every Grey Warden had aged her.

“Mother,” Briala spoke loudly enough for Alyne to hear her. She reached her hand out of her elevated cage for her mother to take it.

“My daughter.” A single tear ran down Alyne’s face, and she squeezed Briala’s hand.

 _“Aneth ara. Ir abelas.”_ Briala shut her eyes in shame.

Alyne continued in Elvish, _“Dirthara, da’len. Ar lath ma, vehnan.”_

“I love you too, Mother. Please forgive me.”

“For what, Briala? You have been through much.” Alyne released Briala’s hand slowly. “It is I who should ask for forgiveness, for I left you when you truly needed me. Ever since I left the clan . . .”

“It is all right. I forgive you. Let us move on.”

Alyne nodded and unlocked the cell door. Briala jumped out, leaving the metal cage to swing in the air on its chain. “I apologize for Ser Greyson’s behavior and for those who captured you.” She glanced repulsively at the two guards behind her who were currently playing some sort of men’s game. It seemed to involve guessing who could piss the farthest. Alyne sighed and shook her head, returning her attention to Briala. “Men,” she muttered. “You are welcome to stay in Ostagar for as long as you wish. I will make sure,” she swept a hand at the men who now seemed to be doing a spitting contest in addition to their prior game, “these fools and others like them don’t bother you. Remember, there are many decent men in the Grey Wardens.” She smiled distantly. “Your father was one of them.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

“It is nothing, ma vehnan.” Briala wrung her hands for a second, and her mother noticed her daughter’s apprehension immediately. “Do you wish to ask me something, Briala?”

“Would . . . would the Grey Wardens be able to aid the elves in the coming war?”

Alyne’s face hardened. “I will not have you in that puerile war. Our people are heading into a slaughter. You will not be a part of that.”

“I’ve thought about this a lot. Either we die on our knees or on our feet. If we’re going extinct anyway, I want to be on my feet. You admitted ‘our people are heading into a slaughter’! Think of the Grey Wardens fighting alongside the elves, Mother! We might actually have a chance!” Briala took her mother’s arm, but Alyne pulled away in disgust.

“I cannot believe you wish to fight in this charade!”

“We all die! Why don’t you believe in honor, for fighting for our people?”

Alyne answered solemnly, “I do believe in honor, and that is why the Grey Wardens cannot take sides in this war. If we did, the human nations would not help us in the Blights which I feel are coming very soon.”

“So, you will just let our people die, then? Is that your plan?”

Alyne put her helmet back on and turned around. She explained over her shoulder, “This war has been a long time coming. It will decimate our peoples’ population no matter the outcome. Loss will doom us all. Victory will eventually kill us. The Elvhen are gone, Briala. ‘Let the dead bury the dead.’” Alyne, Commander of the Grey, Hero of Ferelden, mother of Briala, walked away from her daughter. Briala stared after her, the words of possible reconciliation prepared to leap off the precipice of her tongue, but she could not gather the courage to call after her mother, to tell her she herself was wrong. Oh, how everything could have been different, could have spared so many lives, if those words were not left unspoken. Instead, they died on her tongue as Briala clung to the belief she was correct in her decision to lead her people to victory, or die doing so.


	55. Chapter 55

55

Joining

“Kieran.”

The eighteen-year-old boy turned around, his winged helmet still in his hands. A smile overcame his stern face. “Briala,” he returned lightly. He studied her more mature face. Her eyes were wearied by her experiences, and her mouth was drawn tightly in spite of the reunion. Her posture disclosed she was always prepared to engage in battle even in the presence of her brother in friendly territory. Her ears twitched at the slightest sound outside. She constantly fidgeted with her hands.

“I’m sorry for running away three years ago.” She swallowed, anxiously awaiting whether she would next hear words of clemency or condemnation.

He turned around to set down the helmet. “Yeah.” The helmet clanged against the table. “Thanks for the apology.” The words came out dryly. He didn’t turn around. “You know, we were left at Weisshaupt, alone. The Grey Wardens discovered us the moment we tried to leave. They only let us go after your mother convinced them she was the Hero of Ferelden. And after I swore to take part in the Joining. My mother hated the idea. She left. I still don’t know where she is. Hawke left. Alyne stayed long enough to make sure I didn’t die from the Joining.” He paused. “I watched two others die in front of me during it. Boys just like me. I suppose I understand now why you didn’t want to come back from the Fade. It all would have been so much better if you had told us. If you had let us follow you into the eluvian. But,” he sighed, “I suppose we can’t change that now, can we?”

She remained silent.

He turned around without expression. His face was lined from both stress and the darkspawn taint. “I am now a Grey Warden. You should be addressing me as ‘ser.’”

“Yes, ser,” she replied sheepishly. She hesitated before asking, “I . . . thought you _wanted_ to be a Grey Warden.”

He slammed his fist on the wooden table behind him and nearly yelled at her before biting his lip in self-control. “I _wanted_ to be a Grey Warden, yes, but not anymore. I do this because there is no going back. There is no going back to living in the woods without a care in the world. You would know that best, wouldn’t you, Briala?”

She lowered her head.

“I would have searched for you if I had the chance. I’ve been using every resource available to me because, despite my vexation at you, we share blood. I am glad to see you are safe.”

She looked into his eyes––dark brown eyes. The same as Tam’s. She blinked rapidly and lowered her head once more. “I’m so sorry, Tam.”

“Tam?” He stepped forward and set a hand on her shoulder. A tear dropped from her likewise brown eye discreetly. “Briala? Who is Tam?” Her back trembled under his hand. He moved to tuck her hair behind her right ear to see her face when his fingers brushed the scar. His eyes widened. He pulled back the hair. Briala did not protest. “Who did this to you?” She fell into the crook of his neck and wept. His arms remained in the air awkwardly before he returned the embrace. He allowed her to express herself until her sobs subsided into snivels. “If I may ask, what happened to him?”

She traced the scar on her right ear. “A Hawke and a Raven happened.”

He tried to make sense of the statement before asking, “Who did this to you?”

“Tam,” she muttered. Her mind unwillingly brought her back to the dummies with the elf ears at the Circle Tower. Reunion. Hope. Love. Confusion. Him grabbing her arm. Crushing. Wicked smile. Table. Straps. Overpowered. Tam’s crazed eyes. Shouting. Pounding on the door. “Let us out!” Chanting. “Death to the elves! Death to the elves! Death to the elves!” Cold knife against her ear. Pain. Fear. Rescuers. Blood. Tam’s dead eyes. Wound on his chest. Blood spreading. The strip of blood across his face. Mistake. Lost love. Stupid love. Please be forgotten love. _Repeat._

Reunion. Hope. Love. Rowing. Entry. Confusion. Him grabbing her arm. Crushing. Pulling. Wicked smile. Table. Straps. Overpowered. Tam’s crazed eyes. Red. Shouting. Pounding on the door. “Let us out!” Chanting. “Death to the elves! Death to the elves! Death to the elves!” Cold knife blade against her ear. _Why? Why is he doing this?_ Pain. Fear. Rescuers. Hawke and Oghren. Blood. Tam’s dead eyes. Wound on his chest. Blood spreading. Pooling. The stripe of blood across his face. Mistake. Lost love. Stupid love. Please be forgotten love. _Repeat._

Reunion. Hope. Love. Rowing. Dark. Cave. Entry. Confusion. Different. Changed. Wrong. Him grabbing her arm. Crushing. Pulling. Shoving. Wicked smile. Table. Straps. Overpowered. Weak. Powerless. Tam’s crazed eyes. Red. Red. Red. Lyrium. Shouting. Pounding on the door. “Let us out!” Chanting. “Death to the elves! Death to the elves! Death to the elves!” Cold knife blade against her ear. _Why? Why is he doing this?_ Pain. Fear. Rescuers. Hawke and Oghren. Blood. Tam’s dead eyes. Wound on his chest. Blood spreading. Pooling. The stripe of blood across his face. Too much red. Mistake. Lost love. Stupid love. Please be forgotten love. _Please be forgotten. Forget! Oh, make me forget!_ She shook uncontrollably. The memories played in her mind without end. Kieran held her close and swayed her back and forth. He whispered comfortingly, but she could not hear his words.

She heard a young man’s voice from . . . somewhere. Her head perked up. She saw no one else in the tent. “Soft, calloused hands. Comforting. Mother. Home. The light shining through the leaves. The rain smell signaling life and death and renewal. Constellations. Dalish teaching you magic in the woods. Brother. Mother. Tam––wanted to be lover. Life. Doesn’t fit right. Amulet changes everything. You don’t want it, but you need it. So many people. You survived. Expectations. Who are you? Alyne, Briala, half-elf, Impossible Girl, rogue, warrior, mage, rebel, savior. Not a kid. Not a child. His Raven. No, you are no one’s. You are free.” The voice inhaled. An epiphany. “You are Immortal.” In the small gap in the tent cloth Briala finally laid eyes on the young man to whom the voice belonged. He was scrawny. Blond, scraggly hair fell on his forehead and was mostly covered by a wide-brimmed hat. His clothes were simple and ragged. “I am Cole.” She felt the words more than heard them.

Kieran did not seem to have heard the stranger. He kissed the top of her head and then recited a saying his mother once said to him at night, “Shh. You’re safe. ‘The birds of prey have taken them away. Worry no longer, my little bird; you will be okay.’”

“I . . . think I should go.” She gently released herself from Kieran’s embrace. “Goodbye, brother. Until we meet again.”

“Until we meet again.”

She then searched for the young man without success. Even so, his words had left her with a sense of security she had not possessed in a long, long time. She breathed deeply when a rainstorm came to Ostagar that afternoon, relishing the petrichor. She laughed at the sky and danced that night at dinner when a minstrel––Briala recalled her name was Maryden Halewell––performed a ballad regarding the Inquisitor’s travels. The young man––Was Cole his name? ––always stayed near the minstrel. Cole smiled at Briala when he and Maryden left, and he whispered as he walked by Briala, “Do not be afraid to live, or love, Immortal.” She watched the oaken doors close behind him and pondered just how this man knew exactly what to say. It was a mystery she may never solve.


	56. Chapter 56

56

Rumors

Briala and Oghren were nearly ready to leave a few days later. Kieran had been sent off to deal with darkspawn in the Western Approach. Briala and Oghren had stayed long enough to convalesce from their travels. Briala still could not bring herself to speak to her mother.

It was shortly before they were prepared to leave that Briala heard a rumor that changed everything. She had been listening to the guards, as she had nothing else to do.

“Did you see it last night?” a guard had asked his partner.

The partner replied, “What? Wait. The kiss?”

“Aye. The dwarf planted a wet one right on the commander’s cheek!”

Both guards sniggered for a moment. “Is it true,” the partner asked, “that the commander was in love with King Theirin?”

“I thought it was all a load of crap until I saw the dwarf with her last night. Maybe the king uses her to get some fun in; seems like he doesn’t get any action with the queen.”

Briala had heard enough.


	57. Chapter 57

57

First

“What have you done?” she shouted. She slammed her first dagger into the wall and buried it in the wooden beams.

“W-what?”

“I heard the Wardens talking.”

“W-we didn’t do anything! I just . . . said hello and maybe . . . gave her a goodnight kiss.” He averted his gaze.

“My mother is reserved for Alistair, and Alistair is for her. You made a Mistake.” She swiped the second dagger across his face horizontally producing a deep cut. Blood gathered quickly and began to drop from it.

“What the––Nug’s arse, Briala! Are you sodding out of your mind?” His hands tried to stop the bleeding.

“The first Mistake won’t kill you,” she said quietly. “But the second will.” She walked away, pulling her first dagger from the wooden beam, and left.


	58. Chapter 58

58

Torn

**Present Day**

Briala spat on the wooden boards of the docks she had visited twice before. She had only come to try to sway the new First Enchanter’s opinion on elves. After six of the mages and several templars were killed two years ago during Briala’s rescue, Bethany Hawke, a Circle mage and sister to Marian Hawke, had become the new First Enchanter of the Kinloch Hold Circle Tower. She was much less hateful of elves, Briala had heard, although impressions could be wrong. With full-out war between elves, humans, and possibly qunari looming and no elven ambassadors rising anytime soon, Briala had gathered her courage and set off to the Circle. Even if there would be a war with just the elves and the humans, the humans would exterminate the few elves that remained in Thedas. She could not let that happen.

Oghren was with her again. She still wasn’t sure why she had permitted him to stay with her. He had, after all, already made a Mistake. Often, she caught him sneaking sideways glances at her to make sure she was not overwhelmed by returning to the Circle Tower. She self-consciously ran a finger along the deep scar on her ear. Her breathing quickened with her heart rate. Even after two years, she still was plagued by insomnia and flashbacks which were accompanied by trembling and difficulty breathing.

She had met other companions to great heroes of Thedas during those two years while again traveling with Hawke: Zevran, Isabella, and Sera. She saw familiar faces too: Varric, Iron Bull, Dalish, and Merrill. Gwendolyn Trevelyan, Kost Adaar, and Arya Cousland were just a few people she had met who she believed could become heroes if fate had acted differently. In fact, Gwen Trevelyan had met Cullen Rutherford when she joined the Inquisition. The last news Briala had received was an invitation to their wedding. Her thoughts: _that moved quickly._

While traveling with Hawke, she was helped with her post-traumatic stress by Fenris, who told her of his past after she had gained his trust and comforted her with the knowledge that they were not that different. Briala’s quickened maturity made up for their age gap. They found themselves sneaking away from their group consisting of Hawke and sometimes either Anders or Merrill. Fenris and Briala discussed their lives, compared Tevinter and Dalish constellations, and joked about Hawke and Anders, always making sure the testy mage was far out of earshot. Fenris was an escaped elven Tevinter slave marked with lyrium vallaslin that had erased his memory, not unlike Briala’s previous affliction. He similarly had white hair, almost like Briala. He too fought for freedom, and though he did not like her magical amulet, he soon learned to ignore it and instead focus on the woman wearing it.

She smiled at the thought of Fenris, hoping to see him again soon. She then shook herself and said to Oghren, “Let’s be off.” They stepped into a rowboat, now commissioned by a “professional,” and waited as they were brought across Lake Calenhad to the tower. Hopefully this would be the last time for her to visit it.

They reached the tower after many minutes filled with long, awkward silence and walked to the doors in the cave entrance.

“What is your business in the tower?” The first templar asked. Briala was already being unpleasantly reminded of her second visit.

“I am Briala, daughter of Alyne Sabrae, the Hero of Ferelden. I have come to the Circle Tower as an ambassador to the elves. I wish to speak with Bethany Hawke.”

“That’s Madame to you, elf,” the templar spat.

The other appeared nervous. “Uh, Ser Takin, maybe you shouldn’t––”

“What? Insult the knife-ears because she’ll skewer me with her sword? She can’t with the entire Circle of Magi behind us!”

Briala’s knife hardly gleamed as it was drawn. She smirked. “‘Behind you.’ Well, it won’t help you if they find your body _after_ you’re dead, will it?”

He gulped nervously. “I was just jesting, milady.” She pressed the dagger deeper into his chainmail. “Madame?” Shaking her head and rolling her eyes, she sheathed the dagger. “I’ll-I’ll let you in now.” He pointed at the doors before pushing them open.

“ _That_ took long enough,” she complained while stepping through. Mages were practicing again but not on dummies with elf ears. They seemed to be normal targets, made simply of cloth, wood, and hay. The table was now gone, and Briala did not receive as many hateful glares as she had before, though there were still many.

“Nice work,” Oghren said behind her.

“Ma serannas.”

Bethany was instructing four mages near the back of the room in near the same place Tam had been before. Briala shivered. “Messere Hawke.” Briala bowed stiffly after she had approached.

Bethany turned around and smiled, showing teeth as white as milk. Her hair was black, and her eyes shown hazel in decent lighting. A red handkerchief was tied about her neck, and she wore plain mage robes. Had she not looked nearly identical in the face to Marian Hawke, Briala would have thought she was an apprentice. “No, no.” She shook her outstretched hands. “No ‘Madame’ here. Just Bethany. Or Hawke, but you might confuse me with my sister.” She laughed pleasantly. “Who are you?”

“Briala is my name, daughter of the Hero of Ferelden. I am ambassador to the elves.”

“Oh? I didn’t know the remaining elves had congregated to select an ambassador.” Bethany set her hands on her shapely hips. Briala averted her gaze to try to hide the truth. “They haven’t selected an ambassador, have they?” Briala hesitated before shaking her head to answer ‘no.’ “So, you’re saying you came here to seek peace, I’m guessing, on behalf of all the warring elves in Thedas, and, I’m guessing here too, you want the Circle on your side if peace is not an option?”

“Yes. That is why I came.”

Bethany narrowed her lips in thought. “Tell me more.”

“As the humans know, there are precious few of our race left in the world,” Briala explained. “To enter a war would likely destroy us. We simply want to retain our way of life. Thedas has also heard of the defeat of Solas who sparked this war. Soon we may also enter a period of two Blights, the sixth and seventh. All of these events en masse could spell the end for the realm. The Circle with its numerous mages could turn the tide and decide the fate of an entire race. I ask you to join the side of the elves.”

Bethany considered this for a minute. “That was a well thought-out speech. What side are you on?”

“What?”

“What side are you on?” Bethany repeated more sternly.

“Whose side do you think I’m on?” Briala chuckled as if the idea was preposterous. “My people––”

“––are fighting for someone you do not follow. Someone who is already dead.”

“How do you––”

“I can tell. Let me finish, Briala. The elves are using a millennium of slavery in their defense for waging a war they cannot possibly win.”

Briala exploded, “Why _wouldn’t_ someone fight against a millennium of slavery?”

“I said, ‘Let me finish.’ I have learned much in the Circle, including when someone is arguing for someone else’s sake. Usually the arguer only does so because he loves the person he is trying to save. I can see you care for your people, and yet you do not fight _with_ them. I assume this is so because you understand they will die either way. I have also learned while in the Circle that it is difficult to lead. If your people _do_ win, they will kill themselves in civil war and rebellions trying to decide who will lead them; they are too divided already. I will not risk my mages or their honor by fighting for a doomed cause. I am sorry, Briala of,” she inspected Briala’s tattoos, “the Dalish, but the Circle of Magi will be siding with the humans.”

Briala lowered her head. “I understand,” she peered from beneath her eyebrows and grated, “madame.” She turned and left without a proper bow. Oghren ran up beside her.

“I heard it all,” he said.

“How can someone so bloody awful be related to Marian Hawke?” She threw her hands up in frustration.

“She _did_ make a good point.”

“Ugh! I’m done with you, Oghren! I’m done with dwarves! I’m done with mages!” Her voice rose with every sentence. “I’m done with shems and qunari and Fereldens and Orlesians and whatever other filth there is!” She stormed away and slammed the doors in Oghren’s face. With the doors closed, she set her hand on the old, splintered wood, closed her eyes, and whispered, “I’m sorry. I can’t let you, or anyone else I care about, get hurt by what I must do next.” With that, she turned away and forced herself to not run back before she passed the point of no return.


	59. Chapter 59

59

Disorientation

A girl stumbled to the front gates of the fortress, castle? Whatever it was, it was large. And made of stone. Such pretty stone, she noticed. She had come here for a reason, she thought. Not many words came to her in her confusion. She stumbled. Her pale blond hair fell in front of her face. She retched, but she had no food remaining in her stomach. Metal clanking vaguely told her of two guards rushing to her. A ring signaled the drawing of steel. “I-I need to see . . .” The name returned to her after a moment. “Alistair. Theirin . . . Father.” Metal arms lifted her, and she fell unconscious as the fever overcame her.


	60. Chapter 60

60

Visitor

A guard whispered in King Alistair Theirin’s ear at the massive dining table, “Majesty––”

“‘Ser’ will do, Colin,” Alistair said. He took a sip of his wine.

“Ser, we have an elven visitor. She stumbled to our gates, delirious with fever, asking for you. I thought I should alert you if this was truly a matter of importance.”

“Was there anything strange about this elf? Was it a servant?”

“Well, ser, she appears to be Dalish. As for strange, she has the palest shade of hair I’ve ever seen in a young woman. And, ser . . . she asked for you and called you . . .”

“Speak, Colin. You have nothing to fear from me.”

The guard glanced around for prying eyes then leaned down and whispered into the King’s ear with his hand covering his mouth. “She called you Father.”

Alistair dropped his fork onto his plate and pushed his chair back as he stood. The gazes of his visitors from the Tevinter Imperium were instantly directed at him. “It looks like I’ll be missing the cheese course.” He chuckled to try to break the tension, but as usual, the magisters did not find his humor . . . humorous. He cleared his throat. “I apologize for my departure, but something of grave importance has come to my attention. If possible, I will return to dinner. If not, enjoy yourselves in the castle.” The guests glared at him with disrespect. “Ahem. Farewell.” He followed the guard to a distant corner of the castle near the servant’s quarters. “Is there anything else you can tell me about this young woman?”

“Yes, ser. She is overcome with the sickness currently plaguing Denerim and the surrounding areas. You . . .” he hesitated.

“Go on.”

“You should know, ser, that she may not live much longer. The sickness is––”

“I understand what the sickness is doing,” Alistair murmured.

“I apologize, ser.” They turned a corner and immediately turned again into a cramped room filled with dozens of beds. “Here we are.”

“Thank you, Colin.” The guard nodded and left the room. Alistair headed for the third bed on the right occupied by a young female elf with pale blond hair. He first studied her pale face in contrast to the tattoos. Beads of sweat gleamed in the torchlight on her forehead. Her breathing was shallow, and occasionally she would cough or twitch. She constantly shivered. He knelt beside her bed and took her hand. Resting his forehead on her hand, he closed his eyes and whispered, “Why is it that when I see you, you are always ill?” He looked up hopefully, watching for some sort of smile or a laugh, or some small indication she knew her father was there. “Briala,” he continued, closing his eyes again, “I can’t lose you too. You’re so strong. You . . . you survived an arrow in the heart. There has to be . . . there has to be something.” His mind seemed to force him to remember the bodies that were piling up in the streets from this illness. Most died within a few days of contracting it. None had survived. A tear rolled down his cheek.

“Sire!” The nurse who had just walked in dropped her fresh towels. She curtsied. Alistair stood up and brushed away the tear on his cheek.

“That’s not necessary, Matilda.”

She blushed while picking up the towels. “How you know all our names is beyond me, your Highness.”

“Please, stop.”

She now sounded concerned. “You really shouldn’t be in here. You could catch it.” As if for emphasis, one of the ill moaned in pain on his bed nearest to the door.

“It is quite all right,” he said. He looked back down at Briala.

“Do you know this woman?” Matilda walked up beside him and set the towels down on a short table.

He answered solemnly, “Yes. This . . .” He knew he could trust Matilda. She had taken care of him repeatedly over the years. “This is my daughter, Briala.”

“Sire! You have a––”

“Quiet! Please.” He looked at the door. “No one here needs to know.”

“If I may ask . . .”

“Her mother is Alyne Sabrae.”

“The Hero of Ferelden,” Matilda whispered in awe.

He smiled longingly. “Yes.”

“I . . . I’m so sorry, but there is nothing I can do to help her but ease her passing.” Wringing her hands, she too looked down upon the face of the beautiful yet doomed girl.

Alistair thought frantically. There had to be _something_ he could do. They lived in Thedas, a world of dragons, of mages, of magic . . . An epiphany hit him. “That’s it! Surely someone from the Tevinter Imperium can save her!” He grabbed Matilda and kissed her on the cheek.

“Sire!” Her plump face blushed extraordinarily.

He darted away and then poked his head back in. “Thank you!”

She simply smiled with a hand over her cheek.


	61. Chapter 61

61

Deal

“Then the deal is done?”

“You are certain this will cure her?” He watched the pendant that once belonged to Alyne dangle in the mage’s fingers.

“Yes.”

Alistair sighed and shook the Tevinter mage’s hand. “Then the deal is done.”


	62. Chapter 62

62

Questions

She awoke to a cold, damp cloth dabbing her forehead. It felt so comforting. She didn’t want to wake up. She simply wanted to allow her aching muscles to relax. But a part of her warned she must not let herself continue this cycle of waking slightly and falling back into slumber. So, she opened her eyes. A nurse was tending to her. She blinked a few times. “W-wh . . .” Her voice wouldn’t let her say the words. Her throat felt as if a flaming sword had been thrust down it.

“You’re in the royal palace in Denerim, milady,” the plump nurse answered. “If you have enough strength, I shall fetch King Theirin.”

She nodded slightly. It was difficult to remember. Briala thought back . . .

She had left the Circle Tower and set out for Denerim; she still wasn’t quite sure why. Anger seemed to have clouded her judgment. She stumbled along the path for days without food and only unsanitary water from past rains. She had left her provisions with Oghren. Then she made it to the city of Denerim. Most memorable was the stench of the contents of thrust-out chamber pots and burning bodies. She had slept outside for the night after the long journey. The next day she felt terrible, having aching muscles, a pounding headache, a stomach ache, a fever, and finally, deliriousness. She had to keep reminding herself who she was looking for, for she feared if she didn’t, she would be left to aimlessly wander the dirty city streets until she died from the fever. From then on, she only remembered bits of walking, searching frantically. Then armored guards. Then nothing.

Returning to the room, she tried to swallow some liquid the nurse offered her, but her throat still couldn’t seem to work. “Please,” the nurse said, offering it to her again, “you must drink.” Briala tried again with smaller increments which seemed to work. The liquid numbed her throat.

“Thank you,” Briala mouthed.

“I will now fetch the king, if you will excuse me.”

Briala nodded again. The nurse left and returned nearly fifteen minutes later with Briala’s father behind her. He looked older. A few more wrinkles lined his forehead, and his dimples were deeper. Grey hairs were beginning to emerge from his goatee. He beamed at seeing she was awake. And alive. That was good.

“Briala!” He rushed forward and stood by her bed with her hand now in his. His lips narrowed bittersweetly. “You look all grown up.” Her smile was slight but enough. “You have no idea how glad I am you’re alive. Again. You need to stop doing this to me. You made me sprout a few more grey hairs!” He brushed the palm of his hand across his facial hair. A raspy cough came from Briala. His eyes showed nervousness. “Are you sure you’re all right?” She nodded slightly, though her throat hurt more now. She inconspicuously wiped the phlegm from her cough on her elbow onto her dirty clothes. “Is there any new news regarding Alyne?” She shook her head again. He sighed disappointedly. “Well, how have things been since we last saw each other . . .” he thought back, “three years ago?” She shrugged to indicate “okay.” “As I can see,” he said, “this isn’t the time for a conversation. I’ll let you rest.” She nodded in agreement, and he left. The nurse offered more of the liquid. Briala took it this time without question.

“According to . . . well,” she averted her gaze. “You should recover within a week or two.” With that the nurse left Briala’s bedside to tend to the other ill people, all the while not looking directly at Briala.


	63. Chapter 63

63

Potential

“Where is my necklace?” Briala demanded. Her voice had been regained, but it was still hoarse. She felt naked. She had promised to keep that necklace, to protect it. Now it was gone, and it was the only reminder she had with her of her mother. “Where is my necklace?” she cried out again. Her fingers ran along her now bare suprasternal notch. The nurse who was currently attending her dying patients did not look at her. Instead she pursed her lips and forced her tunnel vision. “It was my mother’s! Did you steal it?”

The nurse finally sighed and spoke in a hardly audible whisper, “It was a deal your father made with one of the mages from Tevinter––your necklace for your life. Your father thought it an acceptable trade.” She gently wiped the spittle from a patient’s chin.

“You mean my necklace is in Tevinter?”

The nurse responded only with her pressed lips.

Briala responded the same––with silence. Her father didn’t know about the necklace’s powers, but the magisters could feel the magic emanating from the amulet.

“There is something for you on the table.” The nurse gestured to Briala’s bedside table with a nod of her head. A Small tattered letter sat folded on the table. “The King said it was from someone you knew and that it was given to him by someone at––oh, what did he say? ––Skyhold.”

Briala unfolded the letter wordlessly and read it.

_Briala,_

_This may be the last time I speak to you. The red lyrium is taking over my mind. I can’t get myself to get rid of it. I am having horrid thoughts. Do not come to see me. If you do, however, do not trust me. Just remember me as I was. Know that you were, and still are, special to me. You do not know how much I wished this to be. Farewell, my Raven._

_~T_

She covered her mouth with her hand as tears began to flow, arresting her already-labored breaths. Her cheeks burned red hot, and she hoped Matilda wasn’t watching her.

 _I could have saved him_ , she thought. _If I had known, everything would have been different._

Her chest ached. She longed for another chance. She raised her calloused hand to her ear and felt the scar. The cleft still remained from Tam’s betrayal. The split reminded her of the crevasse in the Fade. Tam was there, in the Fade, as was her clan, Merrinne, her brother, and so many more. She had also lost others in a sense: her mother, Oghren, Cullen. She had so little left to lose.

_She had so little left to lose._

It was then that she wept. Openly. Disregarding her image, she wept for all that had transpired within the past few years. She was only a teenager with the duties of an adult thrust upon her. She felt the weight of it all, the weight she had been shoving away for so long using the façade of strength and will. She did not know who she was, who she would become.

“Do not be afraid to live, or love, Immortal,” Cole’s voice whispered in a corner of her mind.

There was still Fenris. She had not lost everything. But she could. She _would_ lose everything if she did not fight for her freedom. It was kill or be killed.

She knew what she could become.

An assassin. A mage. A warrior.

A hero. A savior. A leader.

A queen.

But not of the humans. They were not worth saving, she thought, for they had caused her problems. The red lyrium, the darkspawn, the fall of the Elvhen.

She would save the elves from the shems, even if it meant losing the little semblance of her life that remained, so that one day an elf like her would live a life void of hatred and war and prejudice. Briala would train herself to be suited for such a task, no matter how many orders she had to join or how much time it took to reach that point.

She would be the queen of the elves, an assassin, a mage, a warrior, a hero, a savior, a leader if need be.

For she was the last of the Elvhen, and never again would she submit.


	64. Chapter 64

64

Onomatopoeia

“What do you mean ‘she’s gone’?”

“King Theirin––”

Alistair took her by the shoulders with care. “I don’t blame you for this. Just tell me where she went.”

Matilda looked down at her worn-out shoes. “She . . . is a rebellious girl, sire. Maybe it is for the best she left now.”

Alistair set his hands on his hips and watched the unmoving, uninteresting wall of the chamber. “Maybe . . .” he said slowly. Quietly. Dejectedly. “Maybe it is for the best, as you said. Matters of royalty do not suit her. Thank you, Matilda. You may return to your duties.” He turned around and left with slow steps, each expensive boot clopping against the floor in rhythm like a drum. Like the drums of war echoing across the valleys. The great war. The extinction of the elves. The new final battle. The decision-maker of the future of Thedas. All in the taps of the king’s shoes against the worn stone floor of the capital. The servants in the castle heard clop.

Clop.

The soldiers in the blood-soaked fields heard boom.

_Boom._

Clop.

_Boom._

Simultaneously.

Yet days’ journey away.

Clop.

_Boom._

So close. Yet far. Like the unknown. People. Animals. Monsters. Stars.

A young couple on a quilt pointed at constellations while many miles away soldiers––elves and humans––died together on the battlefield.

All so close. Yet unknown. No one would ever know. Like Kieran. Like Briala. They had been so close their entire lives. What if they had never met?

Clop. A single insignificant insect on the ground died under the sole of King Theirin’s boot.

 _Boom._ Three dozen died from a fiery blast hurtled from the stave of a powerful mage. The lives. They were all just numbers to most. Gone with a single sound. In a single moment.

Clop.

_Boom._

Clop.

_Boom._


	65. Chapter 65

65

Theories

Alistair searched for news of his lost daughter throughout the years. There were many rumors, and nearly as many turned out to be false. Some said she joined the Antivian Crows, an infamous group of mercenaries. Other stories said she went to Tevinter in search of her mother’s necklace, joining Fenris in his journeys for a time. They were thought to have fallen in love and joined up with Hawke and other heroic companions. She never did find her necklace. _Or did she?_

Another story, often repeated by some of the most respected Grey Wardens, was that Briala Sabrae joined the Grey Warden order, surviving the Joining because of the darkspawn blood by that which was already inside her. Maybe they were all true. The last, most credible story, was that she led the elves in the first great battle of the War of the Races riding a great white halla, holding her gleaming ironbark sword in the air and shouting, “‘In war victory!’” and her army of united Dalish and city elves responding,

“‘In peace, vigilance!’”

And Briala, daughter of the Hero and the King of Ferelden, half-elf, Impossible Girl, rogue, warrior, mage, rebel, savior, friend to the Champion of Kirkwall and some of the most famous heroes of Thedas, finishing the Grey Warden motto, “‘In death, sacrifice!’” She led her people in the greatest stand an oppressed race had ever taken in Thedas. Occasionally, a rumor would spread of the blond female elf who would fell her enemies with her gleaming sword and win every battle she encountered. Until the final battle. Some said she had been cut down by an arrow. No stories reached King Alistair’s ears after this battle regarding Briala Sabrae, but many years later, long after the deaths of King Alistair, Queen Anora, and Alyne Sabrae, years after the Dragon Age and the age after ended, a blond-haired female elf claimed the throne of Ferelden, offering equality to the few remaining elves in Ferelden for the first time. Their Dalish camps were restored and their halla replenished, though it never was restored to the former glory of the Elvhen. Briala Sabrae, Raven, Deliverer of Freedom and Hero of Ferelden of the new age, finally restored the peace between humans and non-humans for the first time in history. Power does not come without contempt. Enemies came and went for a long time until they decided to hire the centuries’ old order of Antivian Crows. A Crow stole the Raven’s necklace in the night. The queen aged drastically. Soon after, she passed into the Fade, the Beyond, for all eternity, where she was finally reunited with the souls of those whom she loved, relieved of her duty and finally in the peace she had been waiting for since the Dragon Age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my story! If you would like to support me as an author, please pick up a copy of one of my books from Amazon: The White Phoenix Saga (fantasy series): EverFire, The Burning Arrows, Blood of the Elders; Artist's Whispers (poetry collection): Tomorrow's Dreams; A Bard's Tales (short story collection): Venture Forth. For more info, visit my bio or follow me on Insta @writer.gloriabyrd


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